


Moving On

by R5h



Category: Ghost - Mystery Skulls (Music Video), Mystery Skulls (Band)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 10:06:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 112,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3443225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R5h/pseuds/R5h
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One year ago, four paranormal investigators went into a cave. Eventually, all four made it out, but not without losing something in the process: memories, anonymity, an arm, and a life.</p>
<p>It's been one year, and now Lewis is back. So now everything's going to be okay, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude 1: Pompeii

“ _I was leeeeeft… to my owwwwwn… devi—i—i—ices…._ ”

 

Mystery howled along as Lewis sang. Not that the dog knew the words, what with being a dog and all, but he did have a thing for tunes. “ _Many dayyyyys… fellawaaaaay with nooothing to shooooow,_ ”Lewis continued in a rich baritone, slapping the wheelwith every long beat.

 

“Lewis, you are a goddamned sellout,” Arthur said, slumped over the back of the van’s front seat between Vivi and Mystery. He still wasn’t quite sure how he’d been placed in the back instead of Mystery. “Uh-oh,  _Bastille_ 's getting popular, better listen to their  _one song—_ ”

 

“Oh come on, snooty,” Vivi said, bobbing her head to the beat as the song sped up a bit. “Live a little.  _Great clouds rolled over the hills, bringing darkness from abo—o—o—ooove…._ ” She and Lewis harmonized together on these words, octaves apart, and Mystery howled again in approval.

 

Arthur sighed. At least they’d taken his remark as a joke, which he was pretty sure was how he’d meant it. Though maybe he’d have smiled if he were trying to be funny… he didn’t know. All he was really sure about was that as he watched his two best friends singing together in the front seat, he felt left out for more reasons than not just knowing the words. The back seat situation probably had something to do with that.

 

“Left here,” Vivi said, cutting herself off mid-song. “The cave’s like a mile and a half down this road.” Lewis obeyed, turning the wheel with one hand. With the other he held an imaginary bow and played air violin. Arthur managed to smile at that; Lewis was the only person he’d ever seen who mimed a classical instrument.

 

_Smack ‘em,_  said a thought in his head, as Lewis and Vivi.  _Smack ‘em in the back of their stupid heads._  He ignored the thought. An intrusive thought—that was what it was called, according to Lewis. One of the benefits of having a psych major for a best bud was that long-standing neuroses could get real-world explanations.

 

“Tons of people have then,  _amigo_ ,” Lewis had said when Arthur had confided in him about it. “Like, say, you see a cliff and think, ‘What would it feel like, if I jumped off the cliff?’ Doesn’t matter. You’re not your thoughts, you’re your actions.”

 

_By that logic,_  Arthur thought, feeling the seat back dig into his chest,  _I’m a slightly nervous wreck who is incredibly okay with becoming a third wheel. To friends with awful musical taste._

 

The refrain came back around again, and he knew the words to this bit, at least. “ _But if you close your eyes,_ ” he mumbled, as Lewis and Vivi belted it out, “ _does it almost feel like nothing’s changed at all? And if you close your eyes, does it almost feel like you’ve been here before?_ ”

 

He grunted, skipping the lines about the optimist, giving Mystery a few scratches on the head. For some reason, Mystery didn’t lean back into the scratches like he usually did; instead, he stared at Arthur through those tiny spectacles Vivi had him wear, like Arthur had done something wrong.

 

Arthur stared back, unnerved. For God’s sake, how could  _Mystery_  unnerve him, of all things? He was about to go into a spooky cave known for creepy spirit hauntings, and Mystery was the fluffy pooch he’d known for more than a year: one of the two of these things should have been disquieting, and it shouldn’t have been the pooch.

 

_Aw, screw it,_  Arthur thought, as the song ended and as they pulled up to the mouth of the cave—a worryingly literal mouth, in fact. The stalactites hanging from the ceiling of the entrance looked like teeth and—yup, of course. Arthur looked up to see two eye-shaped holes in the appropriate positions, an unnatural green glow shining through them. He gulped. _Let’s just see what the big deal is about this place and get out._

 

* * *

 

“Two paths,” Lewis muttered, holding a torch. Of  _course_  he was, Arthur thought. One had to adhere to certain genre requirements in the spooky green cave. Never mind that they actually  _had_  a flashlight: no, big strong man Lewis had to set something on  _fire._  “You think the Wraith of Westbrook likes the high or the low?”

 

“The Wraith of Westbrook,” Arthur repeated, looking at the sign that—of course—had an actual skull on it. “If it hadn’t been somewhere starting with a ‘W’, you think they’d have called it a wraith?” He shivered and rubbed his arm, feeling a sudden chill.

 

Vivi laughed. “How many years have you been doing ghost stuff, Arthur? If it doesn’t alliterate or rhyme or something, then what’s the point?” She tapped her chin a few times.“All right, I’ll take the low road with our favorite canny little canine.” She kneeled down and scratched his head, and this time he responded in a normal dog-like way, growling a bit in satisfaction and closing his eyes. “Lewis, Arthur, you take the high road.”

 

“Got it,” Lewis said, motioning Arthur toward the path that went upwards. “See you on the other side, Vivi.”

 

“Same,” she said, smiling at him as she went down the other path. Mystery followed, but not without giving Arthur another suspicious look.

 

He shivered again and followed Lewis, who held his torch out ahead of him like a regular Indiana Jones.  _Grab the torch,_  said a thought,  _and shove it in his friggin’ poofy purple hair._ He actually had to stop and shake his head for this one.  _No!_  the real him thought back.  _That’s horrible! And it’s called a pompadour._

 

“How are you doing, Arthur?” Lewis asked ahead of him. “If things get hairy, just stay behind me. I’ll protect you.”

 

“Thanks, Prince Charming,” Arthur muttered, looking anywhere but at his friend. “But your _Rapunzel’s_  downstairs.”

 

Lewis looked back at him, one eyebrow raised. “We’re in a spooky cave because we think there might be an evil ghost in here, Arthur. I’m being sincere. What was that about Rapunzel?”

 

“And I’m being appreciative. Look at my appreciative face.” Arthur did not change his frowning expression, or his flat tone of voice.

 

“Now that’s below your normal banter standard,  _hermano_. Is something eating you, or… never mind,” Lewis said, sighing and turning back and walking onward. “And Rapunzel is a whole other fairy tale, you should know.”

 

_Punch him in his stupid face._

 

Arthur started at the thought.  _That’s not something I want to do. Shut up, brain._

 

He kept close behind Lewis as they continued, and eventually they emerged onto a balcony-like outcropping. Below them was a forest of jet-black stalagmites in a sea of green mist, flowing like… well, the river Styx came to mind. The emerald light of the mist iridesced off the stalagmites, revealing alarmingly sharp points at their tops.

 

“Whoa,” Lewis said, leaning forward, his chest slightly over the edge. “That is gorgeous, that is. Vivi’s going to wish she’d seen this.”

 

_Push him._

 

Arthur turned away, gripping his arm for some reason. “Stop it,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. “Just stop it.”

 

When he opened his eyes again, a patch of white fur was in his peripheral vision, and he looked down to see Mystery staring up at him. “What the hell are you doing up here, Mystery?” he asked, squinting as the dog’s gaze failed to move.

 

_Push him._  The dog cocked his head to the side as Arthur smacked himself in the head to try to get the voice under control. It was never this bad.  _Push him, Arthur. Push. Him._

 

His legs were moving. Oh, God, why were his legs moving?  _Push him, Arthur, and get your hands on that luscious dame next._  He tried to stop them, but it didn’t seem like they were his anymore. He looked at Lewis, a scream rising in his throat, but unable to escape.

 

_Push him, Arthur._  His legs were moving and his arm was rising, and instead of his own pale flesh he saw green skin on his hand. Half his mouth was contorting into a rictus, and he realized with a new thrill of terror—he didn’t call himself Arthur inside his own head.

 

_That’s right, Arthur, you don’t. But I do. Push him, NOW._

 

“Hey, Arthur, are you seeing this?” Lewis asked, turning to look at him. The smile on Arthur’s face widened, to know Lewis would be able to see—then Arthur’s green hand was at his chest, pushing forward. It didn’t take much—he was so close to the edge—

 

And Lewis went tumbling down. Arthur saw a moment of fear in his eyes before they disappeared over the edge.

 

“No,” Arthur said, but it came out as a strangled gurgle, drowned out by Lewis’s own screech of terror. He only had half of his throat, and was losing that half quickly.

 

_Yes, Arthur._  He heard a  _thunk_ , and Lewis’s screams stopped like a switch had been flipped. _Well done. Want to see your good work?_  His legs stepped forward, toward the precipice—

 

Pain. Pain he didn’t even have a frame of reference to comprehend, pain so intense it wrapped around the scale and came out as dim confusion, and mounting dread of the realization to come. He fell to his knees less than a yard from the edge, gasping in shock. From his vantage point he saw a twitching hand reaching up from the stalagmites, covered in blood. He let out another strangled sound and turned on his knees, using his arms to push, but he fell over. Something was missing.

 

As he collapsed, he looked away from the ledge and saw something that looked like it belonged in a fever dream. It was bigger than Arthur, bigger than Lewis—bigger than their whole van—and black with a red glow about it and its six tails. In its mouth was a green arm, struggling against the creature’s grip. As Arthur continued to collapse, he conceded that the arm had to be his.

 

The pain hit him full force, and he didn’t have enough air left in his lungs to let it out, or to do anything else. The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was the pair of yellow spectacles on the creature’s snout.

 

_But if you close your eyes…._

 

* * *

 

There was a graveyard, and someone who shouldn’t have been there was.

 

There was a funeral, and someone who should have been there wasn’t.

 

Now no one was left but Arthur, and a body buried underneath a headstone that read  _Lewis Hernandez,_  with dates of birth and death. And Arthur didn’t know where to begin. Standing in front of the headstone, he gazed up at the sky—which was the kind of dark gray that funerals deserved—and looked for thoughts.

 

He gave it a try and said, “H-hey, Lewis,” but there didn’t seem to be any future in that conversation starter, so he gave up on it. Arthur shivered as the wind blew around him on the cold fall day, and he stared numbly at the stone.  _What do you say at the grave of your best friend?_  No answer there.

 

_What do you say at the grave of your victim?_

 

He reflexively grabbed his shoulder, the one that didn’t have an arm on it anymore. He had plans to build a mechanical replacement, but for the funeral he had to settle for this clumsy prosthetic. Actually, calling it a prosthetic was being too kind; the elbow didn’t move and the fingers didn’t bend. It was just a piece of plastic, one that looked human when disguised by a suit.

 

Anyway, he had to say  _something_ , and there wasn’t anyone else he could say it to. Vivi was amnesiac, Mystery was… terrifying, and no one else would have believed a possession tale for even a moment.

 

Lewis was the only one he could talk to, and Lewis was dead.

 

Arthur sat down in the grass, which the chill had turned stiff and unpleasant; the points poked into his suit pants. His fake arm splayed out at an awkward angle to accommodate him. “It, um…. It was a nice ceremony, I think.” This seemed like a better way to start. “I mean, I don’t have a lot of comparisons—thank God—but it was really moving. The priest gave a really beautiful sermon, about how you’re in a better place now. Here’s hoping, buddy.”

 

He hesitated and looked around, but it was just him and headstones within hearing range. The closest sign of life was his van on the cemetery’s driveway, where Mystery was napping… well, unless the not-a-dog was watching him through the window with that stare of his.

 

Arthur looked back at the gravestone. “And then we all sang a couple of hymns, and I think most of the people there cried. Everyone was really sad you were gone—everyone that made it, anyway. Vivi, um….’ He ran his good hand through his hair as he often did when stressed, making it stick up. His hair always stuck up. “Vivi couldn’t come. Sorry. She had a… thing….”

 

He’d lied to Vivi, he’d lied to his family, he’d lied to everyone else. Not to Lewis. Arthur hung his head and said, “She doesn’t remember you, Lewis. At all.”

 

That had been the worst part of it. He’d woken up with no arm in a hospital bed after the cave, half-expecting to see green flesh on his body or some sort of hellhound in front of him, so it had been a relief to see Vivi at his bedside—at first. Until he’d noticed that she didn’t seem to be putting on a brave face at all, but that she was simply relieved to see he was okay. Until she’d asked him who this “Lewis” person was that he kept muttering about in his sleep, and he’d nearly gagged on his tongue as the enormity of the question hit him.

 

Honestly, it was better that she hadn’t gone to the funeral. He’d been on the edge of his seat the whole time, clutching the railing and shaking like an invalid with his cane, fighting the urge to stand up and scream. Whether it would have been a confession or just an unintelligible cry, he had no idea, but he’d made it through. Barely. If Vivi had been there—Vivi the blithe spirit, who should have been crying her blue eyes out—

 

“She came to the wake with me, just because I seemed sad, you know,” Arthur continued. He was talking faster now, perversely glad of the chance to just  _say it_  to someone. “Just kept smiling the whole time. And your Aunt Mabel tried to tell her how sorry she was for Vivi’s loss, and Vivi just stared through her, like her eyes turned to glass or something. Like how she just tunes me out whenever I try to bring up anything about you or what happened, like I’m a….”

 

_Like I’m a ghost._  Something between a laugh and a sob escaped his throat. Like  _he_  was the one who’d gotten the raw deal in this.

 

_Bash your head in,_  suggested a thought, and he had an image of himself grabbing the headstone with his good hand, and pulling his body forward as he swung his skull into the corner of the stone, again and again and again—

 

“Stop,” he sobbed, squeezing his fingers into a fist and pushing them against the ground, putting his weight into them. “I didn’t, I swear. I swear, I never would have done it, Lewis. I never would have pushed you, but something happened and I couldn’t control it, and I am so, _so_  sorry.”

 

His eyes squeezed shut against tears that would have blinded him anyway. “Something got me, and it made me think of Vivi, like I could… I don’t know. But that’s never going to happen. I’m not going to start dating her or something just because you’re—”

 

_Out of the way._

 

“ _Gone!_ ” Arthur screamed, forcing back those four poisonous words. “Lewis is  _gone_. Stop it, I’m not like that, I’m not like that, I’m not, I’m not, I’m  _not_.” He panted like he’d just climbed a cliff.

 

Arthur wiped his eyes against his arm, not letting his fist up off the ground, then looked up without opening his eyes. Where the grave was, his mind’s eye saw Lewis towering above him, his face unreadable in shadow. That was all right—Lewis wouldn’t have cared what he thought. Actions spoke louder than apologies.

 

It didn’t matter anyway. He opened his eyes, and the only Lewis in front of him was beneath a stone bearing his name. Arthur tried to stand, pushing off the ground with both hands, but he only had one now: he lost his balance and fell into the grass, feeling pinpricks against his skin. With a grunt of pain he tried again, slower this time, like an old man.  _I need a prosthetic,_ he thought.  _A real one, not a mannequin arm—I can’t be useless forever._

 

He was fully vertical now, and gave the headstone a last look. “I love her,” he said in a voice heavy with tears, “because she’s my best friend left. And I’m going to be stronger next time, I swear. I’m going to protect us now. It’ll never happen again. And she’s going to be happy, even if she doesn’t remember anything and I can’t say anything. That’s what you’d want, right?”

 

He half turned away, but stopped for his final words. “Thanks for listening, Lewis,” he said over his shoulder. “Goodbye.” Then he was half-limping back to the van, feeling the weight of the prosthetic on his shoulder and the tears on his cheek.

 

Arthur didn’t start driving as soon as he got in the car. It wouldn’t have been safe. So he let his head rest against the steering wheel like a pillow after a long day—and it had been a long day.

 

He heard a keening noise, and a white snout burrowed its way onto his lap. When he realized what it was, he jumped in fright. “Gah!” Mystery retreated to the other end of the front seat, looking at him like a normal dog would look at their sad human.

 

Arthur couldn’t resist literal puppy-dog eyes for long. He reached his hand across—he’d have used a ten-foot pole if he’d had one, but he settled for keeping the rest of his body as far away from the hand as possible—and scratched Mystery’s head. The “dog” reacted appropriately, leaning up into the scratches as Arthur moved down to rub his snout, a favorite of Mystery’s.

 

“All right,” Arthur sighed, “come here.” If there were a way to morosely leap, Mystery did it, quickly flopping his head and front paws onto Arthur’s lap as Arthur continued to pet him, and as Arthur’s ragged breathing became more regular. There was something about having a dog, even a pretend one, that could really calm a person.

 

“You got the thing out of me, didn’t you?” Arthur said, looking down at Mystery. “A bit late, but it was gonna take me over all the way, and you stopped it. So I guess you’re on my side?” Mystery looked up and woofed softly, but without a trace of comprehension on his face; it was just how a dog reacted to his human talking.

 

That was all right. If Mystery could pretend to be a dog, Arthur could pretend that nothing was wrong too. Maybe that was what Vivi needed—someone to match her optimism.

 

He took his good hand off of Mystery’s back and turned on the ignition, rebelling internally at how  _wrong_  it felt to be the one in the driver’s seat, when he was so used to just being the one who fixed the van. Having only one arm probably didn’t help with that either, he thought, pulling out of the cemetery as the day darkened. But he’d get a nice, working arm, and with a little practice he would make it look like he’d always been the one driving.


	2. Prelude 2: Get Lucky

It was a hot July night, and normal young adults might have taken the opportunity to go out. Failing that, at least normal young adults might have had the excuse of homework, or regular work.

 

No such luck for the Mystery Skulls: they were at Vivi’s house, scouring the internet and available libraries and  _anything_ they could find regarding their latest case. The client had described waking up to see his room filled with holes, holes within holes, growing in the walls and radiating darkness beyond darkness. For a moment, he’d seen “strange worlds” behind them…until they disappeared, leaving his bedroom whole and hole-less again.

 

Of course, Googling “holes radiating darkness” had mostly returned astronomical black holes, rather than some sort of earthly—or rather, unearthly—phenomenon. No luck there. And the trio was  _baking_ , in heat that couldn’t be relieved by the scant air that blew through Vivi’s screen door.

 

“Uuuuuuuugh,” Arthur said, letting his head crash onto his laptop. It was the most articulate he’d been in an hour. “The best results I can find about holes to other worlds involve Aperture Science. Vivi, maybe he’s just making it up for attention.”

 

Vivi, barely visible behind a veritable bookfort she’d acquired from the library, gasped in mock horror. “Oh, don’t even  _say_  something like that, Arthur! Besides, would he make it up so he could pay us to investigate it?”

 

“Could be a hallucination,” Lewis said, leaning back at a dangerous angle in his chair and propping his feet up on the table. It was not a good night for him to have worn a white dress shirt; sweat stains showed at both his pits. Nevertheless, he didn’t seem to mind it. The man was like an ocean: you could pour hours of heat and frustration into him without elevating his temperature or temper. “We wouldn’t have happened to get some sort of patient history on the client, would we have?”

 

“Uh, no,” Vivi said. “Should we?” Her eye twitched.

 

Arthur typed their current client’s name into Google, hit enter, and found some news results. They weren’t exactly promising. “Apparently the guy was institutionalized a year back for, uh, _severe_ delusions and hallucinations. Like, he tried to ram the things he saw with a car, and hit… a fire hydrant instead. Nice pictures.”

 

For a moment there was stillness from Vivi, except for another twitch of the eye. Then with a cry of “God  _dammit!_ ” she shoved her Maginot Line of books off her desk with both hands. Mystery, who had been dozing in the corner of the room, looked up sleepily as the books hit the floor. “God dammit, he’s a kook. Eight friggin’ hours of research, and he’s just a kook!” She slammed her head onto the desk.

 

“I don’t think you’re allowed to call them that these days, Vivi,” Lewis said. He stood and stretched his arms, breathing deeply as he almost touched the room’s ceiling.

 

“Really?” Arthur said, twisting in his seat to crack his back and get some of the tension out. “Kook? That’s like the tamest ‘slur’ ever—if someone called you a butthead, would that be offensive to the differently assed?”

 

Instead of replying, Lewis took another deep breath, then walked out of the room. “Where are you going?” Arthur asked, but the question became unnecessary when Lewis walked right back in with his bow and violin. Placing the bottom against his neck, he started playing: G, then B♭, then F, then C.

 

“Oh, not again,” Arthur groaned. Lewis stopped and gave him a confused look, so Arthur stood up and pointed his finger at Lewis. “I showed you Homework, Discovery, and Human After All. I showed you Interstella 5555. And  _now_  their new album drops, and  _now_  you like Daft Punk?” Arthur shook his head, a smile on his face. “Unbelievable. My own best friend.”

 

Lewis raised an eyebrow. “Maybe they’re just better now than they used to be. You really know how to be a hipster, Arthur.”

 

“Oh,  _I’m_  the hipster?” Arthur laughed, raising both hands in a gesture of disbelief. “I’m the hipster. Which one of us is currently wearing a waistcoat and ascot—literally, an ascot? What, afraid a formal gala might just materialize around you?”

 

Lewis proudly patted his pink ascot. “Fashion peaked a long time ago,  _hombre_. But music—” he brought the violin back to his neck and restarted the song “—well, that just keeps getting better.” As he played, he walked over to where Vivi sat, still with her head on her desk. He leaned down and cooed into her ear, “ _Like the legend of the phoenix…._ ”

 

No reaction. Lewis played on, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “ _All endings with beginnings…._ ”

 

“Ends,” Arthur interjected. “Not endings, it’s ends—”

 

“ _What keeps the planet spinning… aah-ahh._ ”

 

“Uuh-uhh,” Vivi groaned, in time but not in harmony with Lewis. Her head remained on the table.

 

“ _The force from the beginning_ —” Lewis abruptly stopped playing and leaned away from Vivi, his hands falling to his sides. The room was silent.

 

After a few seconds, Vivi looked up at him from under unimpressed brows. “Come on, Lewis….”

 

Lewis didn’t respond, keeping a blank expression on his face. At last, Vivi sighed, and a grudging smile came to her face. “All right… three, two, one—”

 

“ _Love_ ,” they said together. The violin went back at Lewis’s neck.

 

“ _We’ve… come too far… to give up… who we are…._ ”

 

Lewis sang these words, then nodded at Vivi, who jumped in. “ _So let’s… raise the bar…._ ” Her smile became more genuine, and her shoulders relaxed under her blue sweater. “ _And our cups… to the stars!_ ”

 

“ _She’s up all night ‘til the sun,_

_I’m up all night to get some,_

_She’s up all night for good fun,_

_I’m up all night to get lucky—”_

 

They were singing together now. Mystery, always a fan of Lewis’s singing, stood up and howled along to the music. He couldn’t really hold a tune, but it sort of worked anyway.

 

_“We’re up all night ‘til the sun,_

_We’re up all night to get some,_

_We’re up all night for good fun,_

_We’re up all night to get lucky—”_

 

Arthur, still in his seat, leaned his chin into his hand as the two lovebirds leaned into each other.

 

_“We’re up all night to get lucky—_

_We’re up all night to get lucky—_

_We’re up all night to get lucky—_

_We’re up all night to get lucky—”_

 

With a sigh he stood up and left the room, closing the door behind him with a thud that cut through the music. Lewis’s violin lost the beat for a moment as he watched Arthur leave; then he frowned, shrugged, and kept going.

 

“ _The present has no rhythm_ …

_Your gift keeps on giving…_

_What is this I’m feeling…_

_If you wanna leave I’m with it…._ ”

 

Mystery barked along to the final “ _Aah-ahh_.”

 

“ _We’ve… come too far… to give up… who we are…._

 _So let’s… raise the bar… and our cups… to the stars!_ ”

 

Just after Lewis sang the final word, the door into the room slammed open. There was Arthur, his foot lifted for the kick that had opened the door, with a keytar in his hands and a tube from his mouth to the instrument. Also, white shutter shades. He figured it completed the effect pretty well. “ _We’re up all night to get—_ ” he intoned, his voice autotuned by his keytar.

 

Lewis and Vivi stopped and stared at him. Arthur looked back at them through the shutter shades, then shrugged, pulling his lips from the homemade vocoder. “What? I never said it was a bad song.”

 

“No, it’s not that,” Vivi said. “But where the hell did you get shutter shades?”

 

“I think they’re yours, big guy.” Arthur nodded toward Lewis, who blushed as Vivi side-eyed him. “And this—” he reached behind himself and hefted a guitar strap, with a guitar attached to it “—would be yours, Vivi.” She ran to him, and he half-tossed, half-handed it to her. She was still learning the instrument, and could only really do chords at this point, but who cared?

 

“Ready?” Lewis asked, as Vivi finagled the guitar strap around her shoulders.

 

Arthur got his lips around the vocoder again, and said, “On your mark, Lewis,” in the key of D. Lewis grinned at him, then stomped the floor four times.

 

“ _We’re up all night to get—_

_We’re up all night to get—_

_We’re up all night to get—_

_We’re up all night to get—_ ”

 

Lewis’s violin blasted out sharp, clear tones like he’d mic’d it up for a concert, and Vivi strummed her guitar chords with as much enthusiasm as if she were shredding a solo.

 

“ _We’re up all night to get lucky, we’re up all night to get luck-ay!_

 _We’re up all night to get lu-cky—we’re up all night to get luh-uh-uh-cky!_ ”

 

Arthur was leaning back like Louis Armstrong playing the trumpet, and he walked the direction he leaned, each step in time with the beat.

 

“ _We’re up all night to get lucky, we’re up all night to get lucky,_

 _We’re up all night to get lucky, we’re up all night to get lucky—_ ”

 

His back pressed up against Vivi’s screen door. With a few clumsy movements he disengaged the latch, and the door fell open. He nearly stumbled, but kept walking out onto Vivi’s front lawn, feeling the dewy grass on his bare feet. The other two followed, singing together as their part started up again.

 

“ _We’ve_ …”

 

“ _We’re up all night to get lucky—_ ”

 

“ _Come too far…_ ”

 

“ _We’re up all night to get lucky—_ ”

 

“ _To give up…_ ”

 

“ _We’re up all night to get lucky—_ ”

 

“ _Who we are…_ ”

 

“ _We’re up all night to get lucky—_ ”

 

Vivi and Lewis were facing each other now, stepping side to side and shaking their hips in sync, never missing a beat on either of their instruments. She gazed up at him, and him down at her, like they could have spent infinity in that moment and never gotten tired.

 

“ _So let’s…_ ”

 

“ _We’re up all night to get lucky—_ ”

 

“ _Raise the bar…_ ”

 

“ _We’re up all night to get lucky—_ ”

 

“ _And our cups…_ ”

 

“ _We’re up all night to get lucky—_ ”

 

“ _To the stars!_ ”

 

“ _We’re up all night to get lucky—_ ”

 

Arthur stood off to the side, a smile on his face as he kept up the accompaniment. He closed his eyes as his hips, too, swayed to the beat. From the door of the house he heard Mystery singing along as best as he could, and as small as his part was, the song wouldn’t have been the same without it.

 

They could have kept up the refrain forever, and for a while it seemed like they were going to. Then Vivi laughed, threw her hands up from her guitar, and fell forward to give Lewis the biggest hug her little frame could manage. “Get down here, you giant,” she said, her words muffled by his waistcoat.

 

Lewis bent his knees, and she stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the lips. “Oh, Lewis,” she said, her voice inches away from breaking into laughter. “I don’t think I’m ever gonna stop loving you.”

 

Arthur was still feet away, still smiling. He shrugged, spat out the vocoder, and started playing the outro. Vivi, however, was having none of it. She marched over to him, towing Lewis in her wake with one arm, and pulled Arthur into the hug as well. Lewis lay his arm over Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur barely managed to get his own arms out of the crush and around his friends’ bodies.

 

Finally, Lewis spoke up. “Vivi, you may have just crushed your guitar.”

 

“What?” Vivi blinked. “Oh jeez, oh jeez—” She broke away from the hug, realizing that the guitar had been on its inside rather than its outside. It didn’t look any the worse for wear, thankfully, so she relaxed.

 

“And I’ll take those,” Lewis continued, pulling the shutter shades off Arthur’s face and onto his own.

 

Arthur chuckled. “Fashion peaked a long time ago, huh?”

 

Lewis waggled a finger. “Shush.” Then he cocked his head to the side, like a dog picking up a scent. “Maybe it’s not supernatural, per se.”

 

“Eh?” Vivi said.

 

“Maybe we can’t find anything about the holes in the supernatural world because it’s not supernatural, it’s  _extradimensional._ ” Lewis stepped back, a smile growing on his face. “A projection from higher dimensions into lower dimensions—that could match what he was talking about, right?”

 

“Lewis….” Arthur could swear there was a light growing behind Vivi’s eyes, like a flashbulb about to take a picture. “Lewis, you are a  _genius!_ ” She bounced up, gave him a peck on the cheek, then ran inside as soon as she’d landed. “We’ve never had aliens before—this is gonna be  _great!_  Little green men!”

 

“I didn’t actually say aliens—” Lewis began to say, following her in.

 

“Killjoy, Lew!” Vivi sang.

 

Arthur followed Lewis, walking past Mystery as he did. The dog looked pleased as punch. “It could still be hallucinations. Can we ask him if he’s been good with his meds?”

 

“Killjoy Prime, Art!”

 

It didn’t really matter what they found, Arthur thought, as he kept the screen open to let Mystery go in, then shut it behind himself. This was the best part of being in the Mystery Skulls anyway—not the creepy stuff, not the defying of death and/or bodily harm. Just three friends and one dog, making the moments that they’d remember forever.

 

* * *

 

There was a mansion.

 

There was a fire.

 

There wasn’t a mansion.

 

Of course, phrasing it like that implied a cause-and-effect relationship that wasn’t really present, as the reporter was trying to explain to the newscaster.

 

“So you’re saying it burned down?” said the newscaster, a balding man sitting behind a desk. A headline ran across the bottom of the screen:  _BREAKING NEWS—MYSTERIOUS MANSION BURNS DOWN._

 

“No, Tom, it didn’t burn down,” the reporter repeated. “There was a fire, and then the mansion vanished. Not burned down, it just disappeared.” She gestured behind herself with the hand not holding the microphone, at a dark field where a few pinkish fires burned. “What you’re seeing behind me are the remains of the mansion after it vanished. Now, note how there are  _no_  remains.” She gave the camera a withering look. “Because, one more time, it vanished.”

 

The show went to split-screen again, with Tom the newscaster staring blankly forward. “I’m sorry, Claire, there’s something I’m missing.” The text at the bottom of the screen didn’t seem to have gotten the message either.

 

Claire the reporter closed her eyes tight in annoyance, then opened them once more. “Roll the clip.”

 

“Arthur, Arthur, look!” Vivi said, holding up her smartphone in his peripheral vision. The screen displayed an aerial view of the ghostly mansion from which they’d escaped not half an hour previously. Mystery craned his neck to watch.

 

“Driving, Vivi,” Arthur said. Well, his mouth said it, but he just kept staring forward.

 

“Look, Arthur, it’s disappearing!” Just as she said, the mansion on-screen was evaporating into the air, leaving only the fires that had been started by the ghost’s explosion.

 

“Cool,” Arthur intoned.

 

_Lewis is back._

 

His hands—the right one organic, the left metallic—held the steering wheel in a death grip.

 

_Lewis is back, and he wants me dead._

 

“Well, that’s fascinating,” said Tom the newscaster, his voice slightly tinny over the smartphone’s small speakers. “A mansion that just disappears. Quite the story for Rusk County.” A quick glance toward Vivi told Arthur that her eyes were fixed on the screen.

 

“Not only that, Tom,” Claire replied in the classic declarative tone of the on-air reporter, “a mansion that just appears. There is no record of this building ever existing in the first place, except for tonight.”

 

Tom nodded gravely. “Truly fascinating, Claire. What else can you tell us?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

Some of the graveness left Tom’s tone. “Nothing?”

 

“Tom, we were flying over to get an aerial view of the accident on the interstate.” Claire seemed to suppress a sigh. “We don’t know what caused this, we don’t know where the fires came from, we don’t know anything about this except what I’ve just told you. We’ve called the police and the fire department, and we’ll have more on this story as it develops.”

 

“But—”

 

“Roll the tunnel story, Tom.”

 

“Claire—”

 

“Roll it. Claire Wilson, signing off.”

 

Tom sighed as the screen went back to showing just him. “All right. Plans were finalized today for the construction of a new tunnel through the mountains bordering Bluffstad Heights. The town’s current mayor, Abraham Jones, says that the tunnel will bring new jobs—”

 

“Boring.” Vivi covered her mouth with one hand as she yawned; the other hand put her phone to sleep and stuck it in her pocket. “Why don’t they just say it?” she complained, leaning back into the seat. “It’s a ghost! A really interesting ghost, too. A musical ghost. Have we ever met a musical ghost?”

 

“Really interesting,” Arthur said. In his mind’s eye he saw a skull with empty sockets staring at him. He saw pink rings appear in the sockets, and a horribly familiar pink pompadour appear on the head.

 

He shook his own head to try to clear the image. His foot was pressing down hard on the accelerator.

 

“It’s weird,” Vivi said, scratching her head. “He was gonna kill you, but then he stopped for me, and he looked at me like—”

 

“I was there, Vivi,” Arthur interjected. The van’s engine was starting to scream.

 

“But why you?” She yawned, stretching her arms back in her seat. The adrenaline rush of running from the house had long since worn off for her—why shouldn’t it have? For her, this was just another great night with another random ghost. They’d been on their way back from a potentially spooky situation that had turned out to be a dud, so when the van had stalled in front of the eerie mansion, she’d been more than happy to go in. “Why try to get you and not try to get me?” she said, almost to herself. “Ghosts aren’t usually picky about targets. And the singing, what was that about?”

 

She was as relaxed as Arthur was tense. “Maybe he’s a romantic,” Arthur’s mouth said. It was amazing what a year of practice with white lies could do; his tone betrayed no sign that he’d recognized the phantom.

 

 _Crash the van,_  suggested a thought in his head, as they came to the sign saying where to turn for their hometown of Bluffstad Plains.  _Just keep going straight and crash. It’ll be nicer than what Lewis does to you._

 

He gulped and jerked the wheel hard to the right, barely slowing down. “Arthur!” Vivi yelled, grabbing the door to keep herself from colliding with him. Mystery, he of the no opposable thumbs, was not so lucky, and slammed right into his side. “Crap on a cracker, Arthur, are you trying to kill someone? Slow down!”

 

He didn’t obey until she smacked the back of his head, at which point he eased off the gas. “Arthur, what’s wrong? You look like you’re about to have a heart attack.”

 

“I dunno,” he said dully, eyes on the road. “Maybe I’m stressed for some reason. Wonder why.” He took his metal hand off the wheel and rubbed under his eyes, appreciating the steel’s coolness on the bags he hadn’t lost for a year.

 

A year exactly, in fact. Lewis was coming home for his deathday party.

 

“Look, it’s over now, so  _please_  calm down. How about I put on some driving music?” Vivi pulled out her smartphone again, hooked it into the van’s stereo, and hit random.

 

_“Buy it, use it, break it, fix it,  
Trash it, change it, mail, upgrade it—”_

 

Another press, and the music turned off. “Yuck, no,” Vivi said, screwing up her face. “When the hell did I download all this Daft Punk, anyway?”

 

 _Tell her who downloaded it,_  Arthur’s head said. “It’s mine,” his mouth said instead. “I put all that on there.”

 

“How’d it get on my phone?” Vivi sighed. “You know it’s terrible, right? I mean, their newer stuff is okay, but the old stuff—I should just delete it right now.” She shrugged, not deleting anything, like her hands hadn’t heard what her mouth had said. “Any preferences for a music selection?”

 

“Whatever,” Arthur said, staring forward. He was in autopilot mode now, from his mouth to his hands on the wheel. Again, easy with practice. Vivi tapped her screen a few times, and Vivaldi came on through the van’s speakers. She leaned back in her seat, her face the picture of quiet contentment.

 

 _Lewis is coming back,_  Arthur thought.  _Lewis is going to kill me._  He felt sweat collect in his sideburns.

 

“Hey, Vivi,” he said, his voice as flat as the highway. “Did you ever wonder….”

 

“Mmm?” she said, her eyes closed as she dozed against the corner of the seat and the door.

 

“Our group. We’ve got a group name, we call ourselves the  _Mystery Skulls_ , and it’s just two of us. Doesn’t that seem a bit small for a group with a group name?” Mystery was staring at him. “I mean, three of us, with Mystery, but… doesn’t it seem like there should be more people? Like, even just one more person?”

 

“Mmm, good point.” Arthur chanced a glance in her direction, but her eyes hadn’t even opened. “We should totally go recruiting, yeah.”

 

Of course. He’d had weaker moments in the past year, and given stronger hints, and all of them had simply bounced off whatever armor her amnesia had built up for itself. He sighed and just kept driving, ignoring the fact that Mystery was still staring at him.

 

_Lewis is coming home._

 

He couldn’t ignore that one.

 

“Ooh, hey,” Vivi said, cracking open her eyes as a collection of lights came into view on their left, bordered by two long hills. “Check out the view, Art.” And as Arthur kept driving, the forest all around them cleared away, giving them their view of the town.

 

Bluffstad Plains was a small enough place that, were it located in a more metropolitan area, there would have been nothing to speak of inside it. However, the nearest city was about half an hour away, so by necessity Bluffstad had the trappings of a much larger town. From the van, they could see the neon lights above the bowling alley, the illumination from the movie theater, the bar sign, the town psychic’s house—fraudulent; they’d checked—and more.

 

And they really could see it all. In addition to the sharp cliffs at its edges, Bluffstad sloped gently along its length like the bottom of a car tire, creating a comfortable, enclosed community, not to mention an excellent view for the weary homeward traveler.

 

Arthur’s eyes flicked that way a moment, then returned to the road.

 

“Home sweet home,” Vivi yawned. “It’s the simple things in life, y’know?”

 

“You track down ghosts for fun,” Arthur said. “You don’t care about the simple things in life.”

 

The wording suggested this could have been a joke, but if Vivi had been listening to the tone, she would have known better. Thankfully, that didn’t seem to be the case. “Arthur, ghosts aren’t any kind of things in life. That’s kind of the point. And hey—” she yawned again “—you track down ghosts for fun too.”

 

Weren’t yawns supposed to be contagious? Arthur wouldn’t have minded even a moment’s relaxation at this point. “I don’t track down ghosts for fun,” he said. “I track down ghosts because you drag me along and you might be in trouble if I’m not there.”

 

“Oh, my brave King Arthur.” Vivi chuckled. “Except for the part where you’re  _always_  the one in trouble, and I’m busy saving  _your_  butt.” She pointed at him with all the precision of a drunkard on her tenth beer. “Exhibit A: to—” A third yawn stopped her from finishing the word “tonight”.

 

“You’re right,” Arthur said, braking at a stop sign. “I am in trouble.”

 

He switched on his turn signal—left was the road to Vivi’s place—but Vivi nudged him and said, “Arthur, I’m sorry to ask, but I’m just pooped and your place is like fifteen minutes closer—can I crash at your place tonight?”

 

“All right,” he said, driving forward. This late at night, he didn’t need to wait for anyone.

 

They stopped five minutes later in front of Arthur’s flat, right next to his uncle’s car shop. Once the engine noise died down, there was no sound left in the air but the chirping of crickets. No light pollution meant that the stars shone brightly down at them, so even though Bluffstad didn’t have much in the way of streetlamps, they had enough light to walk by.

 

“You take the bed,” Arthur said, closing the door behind Vivi as she entered his house. “I’ll sleep on the couch.” That was another lie—he didn’t think he’d sleep for a week, at this rate—but this way, if he needed to go outside, she wouldn’t be disturbed. And he had a feeling he’d be leaving the flat soon enough.

 

“Really?” Vivi mumbled. “Thanks, Arthur. Sorry, I’m just so tired…. Good night!” She toddled off to his bedroom, and he heard his door close, followed less than a minute later by her snoring. She probably hadn’t even taken off her scarf.

 

“I’m tired too, Vivi,” Arthur said, sitting down on the couch. He didn’t take off his vest, or his arm, or even his shoes. “I’m so tired.” He stared forward with eyes that felt like empty sockets themselves.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Lewis.”

 

It was two in the morning, and Arthur was wondering if he’d ever get any more sleep before it was all over. For now he was sitting on the hood of the van, letting its lingering warmth seep into his body as he stared up into the stars. His piano-wire nerves had detensed somewhat, leaving him with calm fear.

 

Well, he could work with that. “So, um, you’re back. Not in a better place. Not sure if that’s good, or bad, or what.” It had been hard trying to think of things to say at the graveyard, and he’d expected it to be harder this time. The words were flowing easily enough, though.

 

“And it looks like you remember me, and Vivi, and all. That’s good. Vivi’s pretty sure there’s a lot of ghosts who just forget stuff like crazy, like afterlife Alzheimer’s… she’s one to talk. But I guess you missed one thing.”

 

Arthur looked down at the arm he’d built. It was a far cry from the slab of plastic he’d attached to himself for the funeral; this was, if he said so himself, a marvel of engineering. It didn’t register feeling quite as well as human nerves would, but he had some sensation, and it had all the dexterity of his former arm. It was about the only thing he had to be proud of from the last year.

 

“I’m sorry. It wasn’t me,” Arthur mumbled, lifting his warm hand and rubbing the inside corners of his eyes. There were no tears there, to his muted surprise. “It was something in the cave, something that possessed me, it wasn’t… oh, who cares?” His gaze rose up to straight ahead, right into the darkness. “It was my arm either way, and you’re dead either way. That’ll make two of us, soon.”

 

Dimly, he realized that this was why it was easy to talk.  _Because Lewis is going to kill me._ The words echoed in his head, and a bit of the terror left them each time.

 

“I’m so tired, Lewis,” Arthur said, wondering how large the bags under his eyes looked in the starlight. “I’m so tired of the white lies. I’m so tired of pretending Mystery’s just a dog and I’m just a dude who lost his arm, who doesn’t have nightmares about waking up and finding his skin turning green and his eyes turning black. I’m so tired of pretending that Vivi really should be this happy. I thought I could keep it up for us, but it’s been a year, and….”

 

He sighed, absentmindedly running his hand through his hair. “And I’m just so tired.” He stopped talking for several minutes after that.

 

_Lewis is going to kill me._

 

“I missed you, y’know?” He looked up to the horizon. “And it looks like now you’re back, and you’re gonna make everything better for all of us. Maybe you can even make Vivi remember. So….”

 

A new wave of tiredness hit Arthur—not the usual soul-eroding fatigue, but real, honest-to-god sleepiness. He pushed off from the van with both hands. “Come and get me, big guy. Thanks for listening, and, um….” He half-turned toward his flat, then stopped. “See you soon.”

 

Satisfied, he walked inside, pulled off his shoes, and lay on the couch. As he closed his eyes, the image of Lewis’s skull, glowing with fury, flashed in his mind. It wouldn’t be long now.

 

* * *

 

Once the firemen had put out the last smoldering patches of grass, the police got to work combing the area where the mansion had been. At least a dozen officers were on the scene, each with a high-powered flashlight to lay bare every part of the field. An hour and a half later, once they’d finished their sweep and found nothing, they’d been forced to conclude that it was because the news had been right. Apparently, the mansion’s disappearance had left no remains.

 

They were wrong. It had left a pulsing blue locket, and though its glow was weak, they ought to have found it even without their flashlights.

 

Mystery, however, had gotten there first, and he was excellent at not being seen when he didn’t want to be.

 

After dragging it through grass taller than his dog body for a solid half hour, Mystery opened his mouth and let the locket fall to the ground. They were far enough away from the road and from listening ears, and moreover, Lewis was in no state to notice who was talking. That said, he might just hear the words themselves.

 

“Are you paying attention?” Mystery said. Dogs couldn’t talk, of course, but if they could, one would not expect them to have a voice like his: curt and clipped.

 

The locket kept pulsing at a regular beat. “You over-exerted yourself with the explosion,” Mystery continued. “Also, you made the rookie mistake of trying to kill your friend.” Mystery’s eyes narrowed, but besides that, he didn’t move. “If Vivi hadn’t stopped you, Lewis, you can rest assured that I would have—painfully. Don’t try it again. That said, I trust you remember Bluffstad Plains?”

 

He placed a paw on the locket, and the point of contact glowed red. “I’m giving you a transfusion. Enough to get you home.” After several seconds, he removed the paw, and the locket glowed with renewed strength. “So meet them again, and this time,  _do it right._  Maybe listen a little; if you get lucky, you might even learn something.”

 

He stood and started padding away. “The Mystery Skulls can’t be apart much longer, Lewis Hernandez. Too much is at stake.”  _There_ , he thought, heading toward home,  _that sounded like a convincing argument—and from someone who couldn’t possibly be the team pet._

 

About ten minutes later he heard the sound of something approaching, along with the faint whisper of ethereal fire. He ducked down into the grass and looked up as Lewis surged across the fields, his hair recreated once more in pink flames. Mystery sat still for a minute more, until the brush fires in his wake had subsided. It was safe to change—and about time, too. He’d been up all night to get Lewis, and could do with losing his fetters for a few minutes.

 

It wasn’t hard—a human might have compared it to stretching. He just stretched out his back, and his forelimbs, and his hind limbs, until he was big enough to make any apex predator on the planet turn tail and run. Grinning with dagger-sharp fangs, Mystery loped forward, relishing the running speed he so rarely achieved, and the feeling of the wind and the grass against his tails.

 

As he crested the last hill before home, he saw the Lewis’s pink-outlined silhouette pass a dark sign that read “Welcome to Bluffstad Plains!” and enter the town limits. Mystery grinned. All he had to do now was make it back home before his sleeping humans had even noticed he was—

 

Did Bluffstad Plains look  _hazy_  all of a sudden? His head cocked to the side, and he let out a single confused bark. It was a habit from years of dog life, one he couldn’t shake.

 

Despite the constant presence of the glasses on his snout—Vivi’s idea, which he’d come to find agreeable—Mystery had no problems with his vision. Quite the opposite, in fact; humanity’s most powerful cameras were just catching up to what Mystery’s eyes had always been able to do.

 

Bluffstad never got any more than a little fog, which had never decreased his range of visibility any more than a cloudless day would have. In this dark night, he should have been able to see clear through to the end of the town, but now thick fog was descending around Bluffstad Plains. Within seconds, Mystery could hardly see halfway through to the far edge. The town was disappearing into the mist, and fast.

 

A moment’s hesitation more, and then Mystery spat out a very undoglike curse and accelerated to highway speed. His paws struck the ground one after the other, so quickly that even  _his_  ears could hardly pick out individual footfalls, and he panted with the exertion. This wasn’t any earthly fog, and it wasn’t a metaphor: Bluffstad Plains was  _disappearing_  into the mist, and taking his humans with it.

 

Two thousand feet away. He could still see Arthur’s house, and the car shop where he worked. He could make it—definitely, he could make it. He redoubled his pace.

 

One thousand feet. The mist was accelerating, and Arthur’s house was gone, but the rest of the town was still there.

 

Five hundred feet. He passed the “Welcome” sign, and the last house at the edge of Bluffstad was blurry—

 

One hundred feet. Nothing but the mist.

 

Mystery careened headlong into the fog without stopping. It was several seconds before he realized that, if there had still been houses within the city limits, he would have crashed through their walls.

 

He skidded to a halt, enveloped by mist on all sides, but that didn’t last long—the mist was disappearing now as well, second by second. As quickly as it had come, it was gone, and all around Mystery was a bare plot of virgin soil, sloping gently between the hills. He couldn’t see the van, or Arthur’s house, or any buildings at all. It looked like they’d never been built in the first place.

 

“Lewis,” Mystery growled, still panting with exhaustion, “what have you  _done?_ ” And then another, worse question struck him so hard that he shrank back down to the size of a lapdog. _What have I done?_

 

He’d just sent Lewis after Arthur and Vivi, and left himself no way to protect any one of them. That was what he’d done.

 

Mystery pawed at the ground, looking frantically down the length of the field for some sign, any sign, of the humans who needed him.


	3. Welcome to Echostad—The Last Hurrah

Vivi wanted to stay asleep. She  _really_ did. The trouble was that something was squeaking like _crazy_ ,like a chewtoy underfoot at a military parade. The darkness she saw through her eyelids told her that itwasn’t nearly time to get out of bed,so she pulled her pillow over her head and tried to ignore the noise, whatever it was.

 

This didn’t exactly work like gangbusters, but she was able to hold on to some modicum of sleep for a few more minutes—until something that felt like two tiny wheels landed right on her head. With an annoyed grunt she reached up, grabbed whatever it was that had struck her cranium, and sat up in bed to get a look at it.

 

“Galaham?” she said, squinting at the dark silhouette of Arthur’s pet hamster in her hand. The things that had felt like tiny wheels were exactly those: Galaham hadn’t been able to use his legs since birth, so Arthur had cooked up a little prosthetic that the hamster could use to roll around on. But what the hell was he doing here, in Vivi’s bedroom—

 

Right. Arthur’s bedroom, in Arthur’s house. She’d forgotten for a moment there, dozy as she was.

 

Vivi sat up, setting Galaham on the covers, and smoothed out the clothes she hadn’t taken off before conking out last night. She looked around, seeing more proof—if she’d needed it—that this was Arthur’s room. A sturdy table in the far right corner near the window was covered in various half- and third-constructed machines, a few of which had tiny LEDs that gave the room some slight illumination. Thumb-tacked onto the wall above the table were dozens of mechanical blueprints, including all the iterations of his metal arm. The nightstand had a picture of Vivi, Arthur, and someone she didn’t recognize.

 

On the other side of the room was Arthur’s dresser, and on top of that was Galaham’s bed and another helpful machine Arthur had constructed: a tower that dispensed hamster food at regular intervals, so that if a Mystery Skulls case went long, Galaham would still be well-fed. Vivi squinted at the plate beneath it and saw a heaping pile of food.

 

So what was Galaham so worked up about? “Galaham,” she mumbled, as the little guy rolled forward again and again, bumping her leg. “Just eat up and let me sleep, please? It’s only….”

 

There was an alarm clock on Arthur’s bedside table, and she checked it. Then she shook her head and checked it again. She pulled out her phone and checked that too, confident that the clock had to be wrong.

 

Suddenly, she wasn’t sleepy anymore, and a smile was just  _itching_  to get on her face. “Arthur?” she called out, and half-ran to the living room as Galaham zoomed along behind her.

 

The living room was as dark as the bedroom, but she knew from experience that on her left was the couch where Arthur was sleeping, while on her right was the front door and the lightswitch. Her hands groped the wall for a few seconds before she found and flipped it, revealing Arthur’s sleeping form on the couch.

 

Galaham still squeaked like a mad-hamster, but Arthur hadn’t roused yet, so Vivi leaned over him and said, “Arthur, wake up.” He groaned a bit, extending his non-detachable arm vaguely in her direction, palm out. “Arthur!” she yelled, tapping him on the shoulder.

 

“Gah!” His eyes shot open and his feet kicked frantically, which was not a winning option on a couch. She jumped out of the way as he pushed himself right to the floor with a solid  _thunk_. “Vivi!” he said, almost hyperventilating. “I thought—I mean—”

 

“Calm down, Arthur,” she said, grabbing behind his back and hefting him to his feet. “It’s just me.” She grabbed his prosthetic from the bookshelf next to the couch and helped him get it on his shoulder. “Bad dream again?”

 

Arthur maneuvered his shoulder until it made the metallic  _clunk_  that meant his arm was attached. “Sort of.” He rubbed his metal hand against his forehead and slumped back into the couch. Usually, he did a few dexterity tests after attaching his arm. “Hey, Galaham,” he said, as the little guy jumped up onto his lap.

 

“Was it the dream about the cave?”

 

After a little hesitation, Arthur nodded. Vivi sighed and sat next to him. “Arthur, I know it stank, but I honestly think the nightmares have been treating you worse than the accident. You’ve gotta get over that somehow—see a psychiatrist if you need to! I mean, it could have been way worse than just an arm, right?” Another nod, and Arthur’s breathing was slowing down as he petted Galaham.

 

“Calm yet?” she asked. A third nod from Arthur. “Okay,” Vivi said, “now I want you to not freak out. See those windows?” She pointed at the windows adjacent to the front door, directly across from the couch. He grunted in assent. “See how it looks like it’s three A.M. out there or something?”

 

He didn’t react to this, but clearly he’d heard it, so she pressed on with a growing smile on her face. “Arthur, get your shoes and stuff on.”

 

He did so without complaint. Galaham rolled away as Arthur’s lap disappeared. “Why, you ask?” Vivi said, then realized that he hadn’t. “You’re supposed to ask.”

 

“Why should I put my shoes and stuff on, Vivi,” Arthur said in a monotone. In an audition for a radio drama, he’d have lost the role to Stephen Hawking.

 

“Because it’s nine o’clock in the morning.”

 

Arthur finished tying his laces and stood up. “What—nothing?” Vivi asked, standing and gesturing at the windows again. “Nine o’clock, completely dark out, no reaction? Come on, emote! How can it be night out there?”

 

He just stood there and looked around. It was like a wizard had done a terrible job of bringing a statue to life, and had only managed to get the head to move. Was it the nightmare, or was he  _still_  stressed from the mansion?

 

After a minute, but he spoke. “Where’s Mystery?”

 

Vivi laughed. “’Where’s Mystery?’ It’s a freak solar eclipse or something out there, and  _that’s_ what you’re concerned about—wait,” she said, standing and looking around the room, then dashing over to check the adjacent kitchen. Then the adjacent bathroom. Those were all the rooms in Arthur’s flat, and she didn’t see any sign of her dog. “That’s a really good question. Where  _is_  Mystery?” She scratched her head. “You closed the door behind you last night, right?”

 

Arthur shrugged. “I went outside again after you went to sleep. Maybe he slipped out then.”

 

“Well, let’s go looking for him,” Vivi said, opening up Arthur’s door and moving to step outside.

 

The only problem was that outside Arthur’s house wasn’t  _outside_  anymore.

 

She noticed Arthur’s door first; though it was still the same old, plain old wood on the inside, the outside was made of rich redwood, stained purple and ornately carved. Then her gaze scrolled down the hallway, noting the stripes of purple and magenta where Arthur’s ordinary white siding should have been; across the floor, which was neither grass nor sidewalk; and across to the opposite wall, on which four familiar portraits hung. “Welcome back!” their subjects chorused.

 

It hadn’t been night she’d seen out the window. It had been walls—the walls of the ghost’s mansion, which had materialized around Arthur’s flat without them noticing.

 

Arthur slumped. “That was fast.”

 

“Fast?” Vivi asked, stepping toward the paintings as she spoke. “What, did you expect this to happen?” He neither responded nor moved from the doorway.

 

“Now, now, don’t wait on the threshold!” said the subject of the third portrait from the left. “You’ll catch your death out there!” She was an elegantly dressed woman with immaculately coiffed purple hair.

 

“Talking…  _portraits_ ,” Vivi mouthed, pressing both hands against the lady’s painting. “This. Is. Amazing! And real ones, too, not like that case we had in the Poconos with the projectors—wait.” She pointed a finger at the four of them. “You’re not going to drop us down a trapdoor again, are you?”

 

The subject of the far left portrait, a serious-looking man in priest robes holding a Bible, shook his head. “We promise you, Angel, that shan’t happen. But we should introduce ourselves—I am the Minister.” He bowed, and his upper body came through the frame and into the hallway. “I represent the Master’s sense of duty, and tend to his… dare I say,  _spiritual_  needs.”

 

“Represent?” Vivi asked, wishing she’d thought to bring a notebook and a piece of paper. She’d have taken more notes than a court stenographer.

 

“Represent? Yes, naturally,” said the dour-looking lawyer in the portrait on the far right. “We are the Master’s aspects. I am the—”

 

“ _I’M NEXT!_ ” yelled the Mexican wrestler in the second portrait from the left, flexing his considerable muscles.

 

“Oh, lord,” the lawyer muttered.

 

“I am the Luchador! I am  _passion_! And  _you_ ,  _el Diablo_ —” the Luchador pointed both index fingers at Arthur “—you’d better believe that you’re goin’ down at terminal velocity, because I’m gonna hit you like a train!  _Dropped from orbit!_ ”

 

Arthur flinched, but that seemed to be from sheer volume. He didn’t look like he was ready to bolt, Vivi noticed. Odd.

 

“Now, now, enough of that,” said the lady, shaking her head in disapproval. “You may call me the Duchess. I’m in charge of the lighter aspects of the Master’s personality.”

 

“Lighter aspects?” Vivi tilted her head to the side and raised an eyebrow in amusement. “I’m not really seeing much of the fiery ghost’s lighter aspects, unless you literally mean all the fire.”

 

“He’s really quite the gentleman once you get to know him,” the Duchess said, winking, “and you  _do_  know him, don’t you, Angel? In any case, you can thank  _me_  for the décor, not to mention the Master’s fashionable outfit.”

 

Arthur coughed loudly. The Duchess squinted at him. “Did you just say ‘ _ascot_ ’?”

 

“What do you mean, I know him?” Vivi asked, the smile not leaving her face.

 

The Duchess’s gaze returned to Vivi. “Why, whatever do you mean, Angel?”

 

“No, let me handle this,” said the lawyer in the final portrait, waving for the Duchess to be quiet. He leaned through his portrait toward Vivi, fingers steepled and elbows propped on the frame. “The Prosecutor, by the way. Logic. Sorely underrepresented in current events, and often interrupted—your statement implies you don’t  _recognize_  the Master.”

 

“Um…” Vivi said, her smile fading a bit. “Should I?”

 

“Hair color?” the Duchess supplied. “Hair  _shape_? I did work on that one, you know, and even if it wasn’t strictly hair I imagine any stylist would have been pleased with the result.”

 

Arthur shook his head. “She doesn’t remember him. I’m sorry.”

 

The Minister fumbled his Bible. “She  _what_?” he blurted out, almost tripping over himself to keep his book from falling. “Of course she does—she must. That’s the whole point.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said, and Vivi raised her eyebrow at him. What on Earth didn’t she remember? “You’ll have to tell him—”

 

“ _MENTIROSO!_ ” the Luchador bellowed. He dove through the frame of his portrait with two meaty arms aimed right for Arthur’s throat, only his legs still behind the frame. Vivi yanked Arthur out of the way just as the hands closed around thin air with the force of car crushers. “Your deception will not stand,  _Diablo!_ ”

 

“What are you  _talking_  about, you ludicrous luchador?” Vivi yelled back, keeping herself between the portrait and Arthur. “And what are  _you_  talking about, Art?” she added, turning around to face Arthur. “You’re acting like there’s something I’ve forgotten.”

 

Why didn’t Arthur look scared?  _Anything_  could scare Arthur, from falling masonry to the most benign poltergeists. He’d once stayed in the van for a case involving a brownie, claiming heebie-jeebies. So why, now, did he just look defeated? “Arthur, what’s wrong?” she asked. “Tell me.”

 

No one spoke for a few seconds, until the Minister broke the silence. “We must tell the Master. Without delay.” The Prosecutor nodded.

 

“Absolutely,” said the Duchess. “Sorry to abscond,  _madame et… monsieur_ , if I may dignify you with the French.” She blew a raspberry at Arthur. “Until our next meeting, we leave you to the Knight.”

 

“What? But it’s daytime!” Vivi protested. “Or do you mean with a K?”

 

Arthur sighed. “She means with a K.” As he said this, Vivi heard it: the sound of heavy footfalls on a carpeted floor.

 

It came around the corner, and it was the suit of armor that had nearly bisected them the night before. Purple lights glowed where its eyes would have been, were it human, and the short sword in its left hand hadn’t gotten any less sharp overnight.

 

“Indeed,” said the Duchess with a smile. “The Knight in shining armor, or more accurately  _of_ shining armor, here to save the Angel from the Demon.  _Au revoir_!” With a wink, she and the other three figures disappeared, leaving empty frames behind. It was just Vivi and Arthur at one end of the hallway, and the Knight at the other end. It advanced at a steady pace, its sword hand raised.

 

“You run,” Arthur said, pushing her back with his right arm. He raised his left and planted his feet. “I’ll hold him off.”

 

“Not happening!” Vivi yelled. She grabbed Arthur and started running, dragging the mercifully lanky boy behind her. No matter his stance, he could hardly keep from being pulled along.

 

With Arthur in tow, she rounded a corner and heard what sounded like… humming? Was she going crazy?

 

 _“Si… lent knight…._ ”

 

Right—the mansion was providing its own music, as before.

 

“ _Ho… ly knight…._ ”

 

Part of the hallway’s wall had rotted away, and as she ran past the hole, she saw the pink spirits from the night before, singing their visible yellow hearts out.

 

“ _De… mons quake…._ ”

 

Their singing was probably beautiful, if she had the time to stop and listen. She ignored them and kept running, but she couldn’t exactly get to full speed with Arthur dragging her back.

 

“ _At… the sight…._ ”

 

The Knight, on the other hand, was getting closer; she could hear each metal footfal louder than the last. “Jiminy Kwanzaa, Arthur,” she yelled, still yanking him past corner after corner, “ _speed up_  or I swear to Anubis I am gonna beat the hockey out of you!”

 

Arthur made a surprised snort, and he started running—almost by mistake, it seemed. “What?”

 

“That all made sense, and you know it! Less talking, more running!”

 

“ _Cowers in fear, makes an angel his shield…._ ”

 

The adrenaline she knew and loved was pumping through her veins by now, but it wasn’t exactly helping in an unfamiliar house. She made turns purely at random: here a left, there a right, then a straight, then another right….

 

“ _Strike him down, let the fiend be revealed…._ ”

 

Left again, and up a flight of stairs, and left—the fact was, she had no idea where she was in the mansion, or if there even was a way out this time. And the Knight was getting closer.

 

One last turn, and they were in a dead-end corridor, but it had a window, one which lent welcome beams of sunlight to the dusty purple hallway. “Yes!” she exclaimed, as she ran to it and tried to pull it up. “Never mind!” she exclaimed, as she failed; even though it was technically new, the window acted it was a hundred years old, and it was jamming.

 

“ _Sleep in heavenly peace…._ ”

 

She gulped, and turned around just in time to see the Knight come around the corner, cutting off their means of escape. Vivi backed away slowly, but the Knight didn’t care about her. It made right for Arthur, who wasn’t backing away. He stared blankly through the window to the outside.

 

“ _Sleep in heavenly peace._ ”

 

The Knight raised its sword high.

 

“Arthur, look out!” Vivi screamed, as the sword came down. Arthur looked up and yelped, bringing up his arm on instinct.

 

The Knight seemed to have been expecting easy-to-cut flesh at the edge of its blade, but Arthur had raised his prosthetic. With a resounding  _clang_ , the sword bounced off and lodged itself in the wall, leaving a notch in Arthur’s arm.

 

It was an opening. Vivi acted on instinct, but her instincts were a bit different than Arthur’s. Screaming her head off, she sprinted forward and planted both palms on the Knight’s chestplate, pushing it away from the sword. As the armor reeled, she planted a foot against the wall and pulled on the sword until it came free. Arthur jumped out of the way as it nearly cut him on its way out of the wall.

 

The Knight had gotten its balance again, and again it was running at Arthur. Vivi, hollering like a lunatic once again, directed the point of the sword at the chestplate and stabbed.  _Hard._

 

If the Knight had had a face, she was sure it would have looked incredulous. Its two eyelights stared down at the sword in its chest. She’d managed to stab through it in one blow, Vivi realized, so it couldn’t be very thick armor—which meant it would crumple on an impact. Which would make it a pretty decent cushion.

 

“Grab on!” Vivi yelled, hooking an arm around Arthur’s just in case he didn’t listen. With both hands, and all the exertion her muscles could manage, she pulled the Knight around by the handle in its chest and got him between them and the obstinate window.

 

“Vivi, oh  _my GOD!_ ” Arthur’s volume crescendoed as Vivi ran forward, sending the Knight _through_  the window. She felt Arthur’s other arm close around her body as the feeling of weightlessness filled her stomach, as she and Arthur rode the armor down the two-story drop.

 

They landed, to put it delicately. To put it less delicately, they crashed into the ground, crumpling the armor with a sound fit to wake all the late sleepers in town. Arthur’s scream stopped as momentum slammed his body into Vivi’s, and hers into the Knight’s. That was gonna leave a fair fraction of her skin black and purple, come the end of the day.

 

As if she cared. She’d just rode an enchanted suit of armor down from a two-story window of a ghost mansion. “ _Woo_  to the  _hoo!_ ” she yelled, standing up and throwing her fist in the air in triumph as she turned to face the aforementioned ghost mansion. “Now  _that’s_  how you start the day! In your non-existent face, ghost man!”

 

“Vivi?” Arthur said. He was laying on the ground in front of her, and looking past her.

 

“Don’t worry, I’m fine, which means you’re fine too, right? I mean, you were on top of me, so I cushioned you, and we just  _jumped out a window!_ ” She pulled Arthur to his feet with one hand, then offered her other palm to him. “Come on, high five!”

 

“Vivi?” Arthur didn’t hold up his hand.

 

“Killjoy,” Vivi said. “By the way, those things totally  _did_  make sense—Jiminy Kwanzaa instead of Jiminy Christmas, Anubis is absolutely a god you can swear oaths on, and hockey like ‘H-E-double-hockey-sticks’—”

 

“Vivi, look—”

 

“And hang on,” Vivi interrupted. “You were saying there was something I forgot. What did you—”

 

“Vivi,  _look!_ ”

 

He pointed off into the distance behind her. She turned around, and her arm fell limp to her side. “What the… stigmatic crap!”

 

* * *

 

Arthur had to agree there, insofar as “What the stigmatic crap!” was a statement at all.

 

It was definitely Bluffstad Plains he was looking at, and thanks to the gentle curvature of the town, he saw right to the edge. Every detail was as it had been last night: every house and every street in the town remained unaltered. There was just one thing: last night, there had been only one of each.

 

Past the edge of town was  _another Bluffstad Plains._  Arthur saw his uncle’s carshop in the duplicate; it was right around the corner from his house, and yet it was there in the distance too, sign and all. He recognized other sights: the bowling alley, the movies, and more—every detail perfectly replicated. And past that Bluffstad Plains was  _another_  one, and another, and another, and another….

 

With all those towns compounded, the gentle curvature of Bluffstad didn’t look so gentle anymore. The echoes kept going up and out until they reached vertical, and then up and back, curving above Arthur’s head at such a distance that he could no longer perceive any details; it was like he was the Master Chief, freshly landed on a surreal suburban Halo. The bluffs at the town’s edge were similarly repeated, bordering the town all the way up.

 

Above them—and below the hills hanging down from the top—Arthur could see the sky, but it wasn’t exactly day, or exactly night, for that matter. It was like looking at a kaleidoscope of the both of them combined. He saw slivers of suns and moons pressed together.

 

And there he’d been, thinking that getting murdered by the ghost of his friend would be the weirdest thing to happen to him all day. How naïve of him.

 

“Wow,” Vivi managed to say, once she’d gotten her jaw back in the right place. “This is… this is… unprecedented? Amazing? Incredible? I don’t know which word to use first!” With a squee of joy she squeezed him in a spontaneous hug. Before he could reciprocate, she pulled away and walked forward, squinting up at the top of the town-ring. “Jeez Maltese, how long do you think it would take to go all the way around?”

 

“Look,” Arthur said, pointing a bit closer on the ring. He’d noticed a pattern repeating every couple of towns or so. “There’s those bands of light and darkness, like it’s day in some of the towns and night in the others. What’s that all about?”

 

“Hey, you’re right,” Vivi said, smiling back at him for a second before her gaze returned to the echoes. “Arthur, is it just me, or do you see people?”

 

Arthur squinted, and yes—he did see people. He even recognized a few of them, walking around their respective towns like everything was normal: Bluffstad’s current mayor riding a bike, Arthur’s landlord on a phone call, and his neighbor across the street walking her pet capybara.

 

“Do you think there’s another me over there?” Vivi couldn’t possibly be smiling any wider if she tried. “Oh my darn, could I go over there and meet myself?”

 

“And most importantly…” Arthur said.

 

“What did this…” Vivi continued.

 

“… how did they do it…”

 

“… and why?”

 

The two of them locked gazes for a moment; then, Arthur laughed. It wasn’t much of a laugh—just a single “heh”—but it was more than he’d intended. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad way to start the day, after all.

 

This sliver of good feeling got headed off at the pass quickly enough, as Arthur noticed something in his peripheral vision and turned to look at it. Behind him was the mansion, and beneath him was the suit of armor, but it didn’t look like that would be the case for long. “Vivi?” he said, and she turned around in time to see both of them disappear into thin air, leaving just Arthur’s house and yard.

 

Well, not just Arthur’s house and yard. With the mansion gone, Arthur could see to the front edge of town, but instead of another echo of Bluffstad Plains, he just saw white: a glowing wall of mist that obscured any vision beyond the town’s border.

 

“That mansion’s probably gonna come back, isn’t it.” Vivi flexed and rotated her shoulders. “This… could be pretty complicated.”

 

“Yeah,” Arthur said, rubbing his metal arm. His hand ran over a bump, and he looked down to see the notch the Knight had left in it when he’d blocked its slash. He hadn’t even meant to do it.

 

_Lewis is going to kill me._

 

Somehow, he wasn’t okay with the idea anymore.

 

“Let’s go eat.”

 

Arthur looked at Vivi to see her eyes almost shining and her hands pressed together. “What?” he said.

 

“Where do you want to go? We haven’t had Mexican in a while, so maybe…?”

 

“No, come on.” He sighed. “I mean, that sandwich last night in the mansion was bad enough, but now there’s the ghost  _and_  the town.  _And_  Mystery’s still missing, remember?” This gave Vivi pause, and her smile straightened by a few degrees. “How many spooky things need to happen at once before you stop thinking about food?”

 

With a sigh of her own, Vivi took his hand in both of hers and looked up at him. “Arthur, I don’t know where my dog is. I don’t know who that ghost is. I sure as molasses don’t know what’s happened to the town, okay? And I have no idea where to start on any of those.” Arthur nodded, suppressing the urge to ask whether molasses were, in and of themselves, particularly certain about anything.

 

“So the way I see it, we can be scared and confused on empty tummies, or we can be scared and confused and full. I know which option I’m going with.” She spun one hundred and eighty degrees on the ball of her foot and started walking forward, pulling Arthur behind her. “Seriously, we haven’t had Mexican in a while. How about Pepper Paradiso?”

 

Pepper Paradiso was the restaurant owned by Lewis’s adoptive parents. There was a large memorial painting of him on one wall, and Arthur always felt his eyes fixating upon it whenever he was there, whereas Vivi’s eyes slid smoothly around the portrait every time. “Uh, no thanks,” Arthur said, shaking his head for extra emphasis. “Mexican for breakfast is… weird, okay? Let’s do the deli.”

 

“Mexicans have Mexican for breakfast every day,” Vivi said, pouting for a second. “But sure, Kapp’s Deli it is! Though I still can’t believe they got rid of their cuban chicken sandwich. The nerve of some people, right?”

 

Arthur shrugged as his mouth started conversing for him. Almost unconsciously, he rubbed the notch on his arm again.

 

_Lewis is going to kill me._

 

He sighed, looking up at the hundreds of echoes above and before him.  _But maybe I can have one last hurrah before he does._


	4. Welcome to Echostad—The Pavelskis

Kapp’s Deli looked like little more than a hole in the wall, but it had existed long enough to become an “establishment” (whatever that meant) in what might charitably have been called the “downtown” of Bluffstad. When Vivi and Arthur walked in, several regulars were already ensconced inside, sipping coffee and chatting casually about the surreal situation. The deli’s front windows faced thetown’s left wall of bluffs, so as Arthur sat down at the counter, hecould almost pretend that the town was just the town. As long as hedidn’t look up at the sky….

 

“No signal,” Vivi muttered. Arthur looked her way to see her checking her phone. With a frown, she pocketed it. “No phone or internet. We’re well and truly cut off from the rest of the world.”  _So much for pretending_ , Arthur thought.

 

Vivi dinged the bell on the counter, and within seconds the eponymous Kapp had arrived from the stovetop. He gave the two of them an expectant stare that said:  _What do you want?_ Or, possibly,  _she_  did, for Kapp was a grey-haired, middle-aged person of steely gaze and indeterminate gender. In the twenty-five years he/she had been running Kapp’s Deli, no one had resolved the question, and he/she hadn’t given any confirmation one way or the other. Eventually, everyone had just given up wondering.

 

“I’ll have one Buddha Special, please,” Vivi said. “At alligator speed!”

 

Arthur shrugged. “Cheese curds here, I guess. And a coffee.”  
  


Kapp nodded and turned away, but then Vivi cut in with a cry of, “Wait! Almost forgot. Have you seen my dog Mystery?”

 

Kapp turned back around, rolled his/her eyes at Vivi, and glanced out the window, up at the sky. That was another thing about Kapp: he/she communicated only in looks, glances, nods, and the occasional pointed finger, but never words. No one knew why, and Kapp obviously wasn’t about to explain, but he/she was plenty expressive anyway.

 

For instance, rolling his/her eyes at Vivi and glancing at the sky clearly meant:  _Look at the sky outside. Look at the towns._ _You’re worried about your dog, of all things?_

 

“It’s important to me, okay?” Vivi replied, glaring right back at Kapp. “Look, he’s got white fur and a sort of black and red hairdo, and a red collar. If you do see him, let me know.” Without even a backward glance, Kapp returned to the stovetop to keep preparing everyone’s food. Arthur, rubbing his forehead, looked down at the floor.

 

“Hey, have you seen Interstellar?”

 

Arthur glanced up at Vivi’s words. “What?” she said. “Just making conversation. Anyway, I was gonna say, this situation kinda reminds me of one scene in the movie, right after Cooper wakes up. There’s this, like, sci fi tube colony thing they’re living inside.”

 

“I was gonna say Halo,” Arthur replied, his gaze returning to the floor.

 

“Oh, yeah, I guess Halo works too. Yeah.” She shrugged. “But definitely Interstellar more.”

 

Arthur didn’t respond, and Vivi didn’t press. They waited in relative silence, as the sounds around Arthur turned into white noise: the chitchat of the deli’s regulars down the counter, the sizzle of meat being heated on the stovetop, and the static from Kapp’s radio, which could no more get a signal than Vivi’s phone. No reason for it to be turned on at all, really.

 

_Lewis is going to kill me._

 

At this point, Arthur almost felt an urge to roll his eyes.  _I know,_  he told himself.  _Shut up about it._  Nevertheless, he sneaked a glance left at the window, just to confirm that Lewis’s mansion wasn’t going to engulf the deli, too.

 

Vivi was seated to his left, and as he looked out the window, he noticed her looking, too. So at least he wasn’t the only one.

 

“Remember that one case we had in Madison?” Vivi said, a few minutes later. “You know, the one with the Escher basement at that university?” Arthur didn’t say anything, so Vivi tapped his shoulder. “Come on, Arthur, talk to me.”

 

“I remember, yeah,” Arthur replied. In fact, he suspected he remembered it better than Vivi did, because this case had been before the cave. It had happened at the university that Lewis attended.

 

The three of them had been called because students had been going missing without a trace in a disused basement. When Vivi and Arthur had gone down to investigate, they’d found that the stairs back to the ground floor instead led them deeper underground. “How long were we stuck in there again?” Arthur asked.

 

“A whole day, I think.” Vivi grinned. “Mock my appetite all you want—you’d have been starving if I hadn’t brought snacks.”

 

Arthur rolled his eyes. “You forgot about bringing water, though.”

 

“Hey, they had water fountains down there!”

 

“Fair enough,” Arthur said with a little smile. “That was a redcap, right?”

 

“Yeah. You know, when the old legends said they waylaid travelers, I’m not sure that’s quite what they had in mind.” Vivi gave a little chuckle. “I’d say it’s like what’s going on here, but redcaps don’t really  _do_  whole towns, you know? Just small groups, lonely places.”

 

She pondered for a moment. “Maybe it’s the ghost? As in, maybe that hotheaded ghost did this to the town?”

 

“I don’t think so, Vivi.”

 

“Why not?” she asked. “I mean, what are the chances of two crazy paranormal things happening like this?”

 

“Just….” Arthur sighed. “Call it a hunch. It’s not him.”

 

“Eh, if you say so.” Vivi scratched her head. “Hang on. How did we get out of that one, anyway?” Arthur looked at her in confusion. “I mean the redcap situation. How did we escape?”

 

Lewis hadn’t gone down with them to begin with, and when they’d disappeared, he’d researched the situation frantically. It turned out that a few months earlier, the basement had been the site of a drunken brawl between two students; one had died, attracting the redcap to the scene. Armed with this knowledge and industrial-strength desiccants, Lewis had charged downstairs, ambushed the redcap, and covered its hat in desiccant. No redcap could survive the blood on its hat drying out, and with its death the geometry of the basement had returned to normal, so the three of them had simply walked out.

 

“You know… I don’t remember,” Arthur said, looking away from Vivi.

 

“Weird,” Vivi muttered. “I don’t either, and the redcap really should have had us. I mean, now that I think of it, I remember being stuck down there, and then I remember walking out. So why can’t I remember what the Chaucer happened in the middle?”

 

Arthur’s fist clenched.  _Tell her,_  said a voice in his head.  _For God’s sake, do it._

 

Vivi’s eyes went wide all of a sudden, and she grabbed his shoulder. “Arthur, in the mansion, you said I forgot—”

 

“ _…_ _announcement. This is current Bluffstad Plains mayor, Abraham Johnston…_ ”

 

The crackling voice distracted both of them, and they looked over to see that one of the regulars had been fiddling with Kapp’s radio, and had just gotten a tenuous signal. The others raised a mild cheer of approval, and Vivi joined in, leaning toward the radio herself and loosing her grip on his shoulder. It didn’t take much to distract her, as Arthur had long since realized.

 

“ _…_ _just got an antenna raised, and we’re_ _hoping you at home are listening. We don’t know what’s caused this unusual incident, but we are working to resolve it as quickly as possible—_ ”

 

One of the regulars, an old white-haired fellow, let out a booming laugh and said, in an Eastern European accent, “Another unfulfillable promise from the current mayor, eh?”

 

“ _…_ _no contact with the outside world as of yet. We’ve sent a team to climb the bluffs and report back what they see_ _on the other side_ _,_ _but_ _so far we haven’t been able to get anything_ _coherent_ _out of them…. I’m, um, declaring a state of emergency,_ _and of course all tunnel work has been postponed until_ _…._ ”

 

“’ _Sent a team_ ’, he says.” The old man snorted. “What a politician. I would have had the self-respect to go and see for  _myself!_ ” He slammed his mug of coffee on its plate, spilling a little on his hand and the counter.

 

“You said it, Mayor Hyrum,” said one of the other old-timers, sipping his own coffee. “At least that stupid tunnel’s on hold.”

 

“Quite so, quite so—ah!” The old man looked around and saw Vivi and Arthur. He stood up, walked over to them, and with a beaming face stuck out his hand. “Velma of the Mystery Skulls, isn’t it?”

 

“It’s… Vivi. Close enough.” She blushed with embarrassment and shook his hand. “Dzień dobry, Mayor Hyrum.”

 

There was a reason that the current mayor of Bluffstad Plains was always called “the current mayor”: if you mentioned “the mayor”, people immediately thought instead of Hyrum Pavelski. Born east of the Iron Curtain in the late forties, he’d immigrated to Wisconsin in his boyhood and worked his way up to become the beloved five-time town mayor: the only reason he wasn’t still in office was the term limit.

 

Personality alone would have made Mayor Hyrum a fixture of the town: his constantly-booming voice, shining face, and outgoing demeanor to match; his collection of starched shirts, suspenders, and tan slacks for every day of the week; and his uncanny ability to remember everything about his constituents except for their names. However, over his twenty years in office, he’d worked ceaselessly to keep Bluffstad Plains at a high level of stability and happy prosperity, and it had worked. At least, that was what Arthur had always heard from his uncle Lance: Arthur had moved into town after Hyrum’s term ended.

 

“And you!” Hyrum said, turning to Arthur and offering his hand again. “Arnold, Andrew… It starts with an A, I hope. Any new enhancements for your robot arm?”

 

“Arthur. And nothing new, but, uh, thanks for asking.” Arthur stuck out his organic hand and shook Hyrum’s.

 

“So,” Mayor Hyrum said, gesturing outside. “What a beautiful view today, no? One of a kind!”

 

“Definitely that,” Arthur said. “As for beautiful… whatever floats your boat?”

 

“Oh, you claim this to be a matter of opinion?” Hyrum’s huge laughter filled the room. “I haven’t woken up to anything  _this_  wonderful in years!”

 

“Yeah, wonderful!” Vivi said. “Except for the part where we eventually run out of food and starve… probably won’t be amazing for the tourism, either. Or the tunnel plan.”

 

“Bah, who needs tourists? Or the tunnel?” Mayor Hyrum waved his hand dismissively. “Either way, should I assume the Mystery Skulls are on the case, or should we ask Madame L’Extraordinaire for her guidance?”

 

“Uuugh,” Vivi groaned. “Mayor Hyrum, she’s not a real psychic. She’s a fake. We’ve checked.”

 

“Ha!” Hyrum clapped the two of them on the back, and hard. “She says much the same of you!”  Arthur slammed forward into the corner of the counter, knocking a little wind out of him. At what point did old men stop being able to  _do_  that, and why hadn’t it happened yet? 

 

Suppressing a wimpy whine of pain, Arthur rubbed his bruised lower ribs, as Vivi raised her hands palms-up, and curled the corners of her mouth into a smile. “Well, if you insist… we’ll take the case!” she announced to the deli. The regulars raised their mugs in approval.

 

Kapp nodded without any change in his/her facial expression, then turned around and picked up Vivi’s sandwich: one with everything, per her order. It towered as high as her head, and she stared at it with glee. Then, Kapp took a plate in one hand, and grabbed Arthur’s cheese curds from the fryer with the other. Barehanded.

 

“How did you…” Arthur started to say, as Kapp set his plate on the counter, then wiped the scalding oil off his/her hand and onto his/her apron. “Never mind,” he mumbled, looking down at his curds. Kapp slid him a cup of ranch, placed a full coffee mug before him, then returned to the stovetop.

 

“Say,” said Mayor Hyrum behind them, “is that Lawrence fellow still with you? The one who was almost as tall as me.”

 

“What was that?” Vivi asked, still transfixed by the Buddha Special. Arthur looked up at Mayor Hyrum and, with an exaggerated grimace, made a slash-across-the-throat gesture with his metal thumb. He didn’t have quite the same economy of communication as a certain deli owner, but hopefully the intent was obvious:  _Be quiet!_

 

At least Hyrum seemed to understand. He clapped each of them on the back once more, and Arthur flinched instinctively, but Hyrum was being more gentle this time. “Well, this old man shan’t keep our finest paranormal investigators from one of Kapp’s finest meals. Godspeed, the both of you!” With that, he stuck out his hand again, and Vivi, then Arthur, twisted in their chairs to shake it.

 

Mayor Hyrum turned to leave, but Vivi said, “Wait! Before I forget. Have you seen my dog?”

 

He shrugged. “I’m sure your dog Marshall will turn up soon enough. Godspeed, I say!”

 

He made to walk to the door, only for a dark-haired woman to burst through it, panting. She was nearly middle-aged, hastily dressed, and generally looked like the successful result of an experiment to cram three hundred pounds of stress into a one hundred fifty pound woman. “Dad,” she huffed, “where… the  _hell_ … have you been?”

 

“Joan!” Mayor Hyrum exclaimed, moving in to envelop his daughter in a massive hug, but she stepped away and raised a hand.  _At least he got her name right,_  Arthur thought: she was the only one in town, human or dog (or not-dog), who held that privilege.

 

“I have been looking… all  _over_  for you,” she panted, without any trace of her father’s accent. “You picked  _today_ , of all days, to wander out of the house? Have you seen what’s going on out there?”

 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Mayor Hyrum beamed. “I’ll presently be taking a walk there—seeing what I can see—”

 

“It’s insane! And you’re not going there—you’re not  _going_  anywhere.” Joan Pavelski glanced down at his hand, then leaned in close and whispered up at him, “You forgot your cane. Did you at least remember your pills?” It wasn’t a very effective whisper, as the rest of the room had gone quiet to listen to the two of them argue. Someone had even turned off the radio.

 

“Bah, who needs a cane? I’ve not felt so lively in years!” To prove his point, Mayor Hyrum raised both hands and danced a little syncopated jig. “Dah—dah-dah—dah-dah—dah-dah—dah-dah—hey!” He ended on one foot, with an open-mouthed smile and jazz hands, as the regulars applauded.

 

Joan was having none of it. “Dad,” she hissed, “please tell me you didn’t forget your pills.”

 

“Godspeed, Joan!” Mayor Hyrum grabbed her in a hug before she could react, then pulled away and walked out the front door. “I’m off for my walk! Does my blood better than any medication can!”

 

“Dad—” Joan ran out after him as Mayor Hyrum, moving at an impressive clip, disappeared from Arthur’s view. “ _Dad!_ ” she shouted, standing in front of the door and watching him powerwalk away.

 

She stood there for a few seconds more, with her arms at her sides and her fists clenched: then, with something between a grunt and a shriek of anger, she shoved open the door to the deli and threw herself onto the closest seat in the house—which happened to be adjacent to Vivi’s. “He’s just….” Joan slammed her fists on the counter, earning her a disapproving glance from Kapp. “God knows I love him, but he is the senior citizen equivalent of a leash child!”

 

“Tell me about it,” Vivi said, jabbing a thumb at Arthur. “One of our cases, I looked away from him for half a minute, just one time, and when I looked back he was being eaten by a possessed piano. I mean—” she broke into a fit of giggling, one which lasted several seconds before she was able to continue “—I’ve heard of going out on a  _high note_ , but that’s just ridiculous!”

 

A second fit of giggles overtook her, but Joan just looked at her flatly. “Oh, come on,” Vivi eventually said, “that was good.”

 

“A possessed piano?” Joan asked. “You really expect me to believe—”

 

There was a sharp movement in their peripheral visions, and as one, all the patrons of the deli looked up at Kapp, who had just pointed his/her index finger at the menu. It was the equivalent of a regular person shouting at the top of their lungs.

 

“Okay, I’ll order something,” Joan grumbled. “Just get me a coffee. Definitely not decaf.”

 

The patrons returned to their activities, Kapp got to pouring the cup, and Vivi looked back at Joan with a smile on her lips. “Of course I expect you to believe. You’ve seen the impossible things happening outside?” Vivi folded her arms and leaned back confidently. “What are you prepared to disbelieve today?”

 

“All right, all right,” Joan sighed. “Thanks,” she added, as Kapp set the mug in front of her. “God knows I need this.” She took a sip—a small one; the coffee was very hot—and placed it back on the counter, her hand tightly gripping the handle. “He’s just impossible!” she burst out, after a few seconds of silence. “You just try to get him to do anything at all, take a pill, go to bed, and he just ignores you like you’re not even there! You can’t tell him anything!”

 

“Sounds bad,” Vivi said, shrugging.

 

“Yeah, that’s awful,” Arthur chimed in. It came out more earnest than he’d intended.

 

“And he thinks he can just walk around like nothing’s changed in twenty years, like he’s still the mayor, still young, and here  _I_  am,  _living_  with him because he can’t cope on his own—and why the hell am I telling you this?” Joan said, interrupting herself as she cast a suspicious glare at Vivi.

 

Vivi just smiled back. “I’ve just got one of those faces, y’know? People just tell me things—you can talk to me about anything. Right, Arthur?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“So  _do_  tell me,” Vivi said, placing one elbow on the counter as she leaned toward Joan. “You’d say that his behavior today has been unusual?”

 

“Well, yes,” Joan said. She took a gulp of coffee. “I mean, usually I get up first, make breakfast, then wake him up. But by the time I got out of bed this morning, he was already in the kitchen making breakfast. And then he left, but he forgot to eat anything. Or to take his cane. I mean, he seems lucid enough, but….” She pressed two fingers against her forehead, squeezing her eyes shut, and sighed.

 

“Hmm.” Vivi tapped her chin. “Pretty weird. You know, Arthur and I investigate weird stuff all the time—with our dog, whom I don’t suppose you would happen to have seen?” Joan shook her head. “Darn it all to socks. Anyway, want us to do some looking around about this?”

 

“I thought you guys were supposed to be  _paranormal_  investigators,” Joan said, shaking her head. “What’s happening to Bluffstad is  _definitely_  paranormal, and what’s happening to my dad is definitely not, so….”

 

She made to stand up, but Vivi waved her down. “Wait wait wait. You wanna know what  _I’m_ prepared to disbelieve in today?” Joan raised her eyebrows, but didn’t reply, so Vivi said, “Coincidences. Things like this  _always_  happen for a reason. I think there’s a connection between Mayor Hyrum and the town, even if we’re not quite sure what it is yet. Hold on a minute.”

 

She grabbed her sandwich with both hands, and then with her mouth. Logic dictated that Vivi should not have been able to eat a sandwich as large as her head, but logic and Vivi were not on speaking terms at mealtimes. Within thirty seconds, she’d devoured the entire thing, then hiccuped slightly. “That was… amazing,” she said. “Thanks, Kapp!” Kapp turned to her and nodded. “Can I have a plastic bag?”

 

Within seconds, she’d been given a baggie. “You finished?” she asked Arthur, and he stared down at his cheese curds, none of which he’d eaten. He hadn’t even drank his coffee.

 

“Have one,” she ordered, and with some hesitation, Arthur picked one up, dipped it in the ranch, and swallowed it after ten seconds of chewing. “And some coffee.” He took a few mouthfuls.

 

“Good enough for now,” she said, sweeping the rest into the bag and shoving the bag in one of her pockets. “I’m gonna make sure you keep having these throughout the day, okay? You need the energy.” Arthur nodded. “Let’s pay up and get going. We’ll take the case!” Vivi announced, turning to Joan, who raised her finger and tried to speak, but couldn’t quite manage it.

 

One thing about Vivi: it was very hard to say “no” to her.

 

* * *

 

“So,” Arthur whispered to Vivi as they left the deli, “do you  _really_  think there’s a connection?”

 

“What? Of course, yeah!” Vivi looked forward to confirm that Joan was several yards in front of them, leading the way to her home. She wouldn’t be able to hear them, which was good, because Vivi didn’t think Joan would have liked what she would have heard.

 

“Look,” Vivi said, being sure to keep her voice down as she walked, “who was really happy about the bonkers thing that’s happening to the town? About how that tunnel’s being postponed, and everything?”

 

“Mayor Hyrum, yeah,” Arthur muttered, looking down at his shoes. “So you think….”

 

Vivi lifted three fingers on her right hand in sequence. “We need to find out  _what_ ,  _how_ , and _why_. If Mayor Hyrum is the ‘what’—” she folded her pointer finger down “—then we get the ‘why’ for free. That just leaves ‘how’.” She folded her ring finger down and shook the remaining middle finger at Arthur—then realized, a moment later, what exactly she was doing. “Whoops,” she said, and with an embarrassed chuckle she grabbed the offending hand and pulled it away.

 

Arthur didn’t seem to have noticed, entranced as he was by the pavement. “You didn’t tell Joan,” he said.

 

“Well,” Vivi replied, leaning in for extra privacy, “maybe she doesn’t like him that much, but I figure she’d be less likely to let us help if we accused Mayor Hyrum of being an evil sorcerer, or something. I mean, you don’t have to tell everyone everything, right?”

 

If Arthur had a reply to that, she never heard it, because at that moment everything flashed purple. The sidewalk, the street, the storefronts, the sky—it was like a nearby violet sun had just undergone a violent, silent supernova. “What the—”

 

Vivi looked to her left and saw it. The mansion had reappeared in a literal flash—not surrounding them this time, but at a distance, within the nearest echo of Bluffstad. It loomed ominously above the town’s short skyline, like a darkly glowing tombstone.

 

“ _Oh my god!_ ” Arthur shrieked. He backed up frantically, flailing his legs, until his back crashed into a storefront and he lost his footing. He fell hard on the pavement.

 

“What are you—” Joan looked back at them, then at what they were looking at, and her jaw dropped. “Jesus Christ, what is that thing?”

 

“Arthur!” Vivi shouted, crouching down to his level as his feet kept kicking. “Arthur,  _calm down_. Calm down, okay? It’s okay. It’s over there, we’re over here.” His eyes stayed wide, his breathing remained fast and ragged, and he didn’t look like he’d heard her at all.

 

“Arthur!” she yelled, smacking the back of his head; now he looked at her, eyes still wide as plates. “Funky hill, at this rate you’re gonna have a heart attack before that ghost even gets to you! Come on, breathe!” She clasped his hands in hers, looking up at the mansion.

 

Why  _hadn’t_  it appeared around them? The ghost had done it once before, so why couldn’t it do it again—

 

She halted that train of thought and pulled it back a few steps.  _The ghost had done it once before._

 

Carefully, she looked at where, exactly, the mansion had appeared in the dark echo. Then she looked for the echo of Arthur’s house, and didn’t see it. Because, she realized, that was where the mansion had appeared. Which meant….

 

“I know what the echoes are,” she said, or at least she mouthed it. She took a breath and tried again, putting a bit more air between her lips: “I know what the echoes are!”

 

“What?” asked Joan, who had hurried over to the two of them. “What are they?”

 

Vivi pointed. “That mansion appeared around Arthur’s house last night, while we were asleep. And there it is, around Arthur’s house in the echo—and look! It’s dark over in the echo! Do you get it?”

 

Joan’s head tilted to the left—involuntarily, it seemed. “No,” she said, “I’m not sure I do.”

 

“Those echoes aren’t just Bluffstad Plains.” Pushing both palms against her knees, Vivi stood up, then pointed at the first echo. “They’re Bluffstad’s  _past._ ”

 

Joan’s and Arthur’s jaws went slack. Vivi’s finger kept moving up and up, picking out echo after echo. “Six hours behind us, twelve hours behind, eighteen—something like that, anyway. That’s the town’s whole history, laid out in front of us. Every day, every month, every _year._

 

“Do you know what this means?” she asked, reaching down and extending a hand to Arthur.

 

Arthur shook his head, so Vivi answered her own question. “It means this is so  _totally_  like Interstellar!”

 

She beamed, then grabbed his hand and pulled him up. “By the way, have you seriously not seen it?” He shook his head again. “Yeah,” she said, “definitely fix that, it was great. Plus, it has surprise Matt Damon!” She sighed with contentment. “Ah, if ever I fell in love….”

 

“Okay,” Joan said, rubbing her forehead. “So, one more time, that’s the town’s  _past_  we’re seeing?”

 

“Yup!” Vivi replied, still beaming.

 

“Wow. Okay.” Joan’s fingers pressed into her forehead, and she took a sharp breath in through her teeth. “I should probably get you kids to my home now.”

 

“Also yup.”

 

“And what about the mansion?” Joan said, picking up the pace so that her black shoes clacked loudly on the sidewalk, one after the other.

 

“Long story,” Arthur mumbled, looking at the ground again. “ _Really_  long story.”

 

“No, it’s not.” Vivi rolled her eyes. “We found the mansion in the woods last night, there’s a ghost in it who hates Arthur, and now he’s here.” She gave Arthur an amused look and a friendly punch in the shoulder. “See? Maybe you’re just not that good at explaining things.”

 

* * *

 

Six hours earlier, there had been a town between those two lines of hills. Then, the fog had come in, and there had been nothing.

 

Now, however, there were reporters. By Wisconsin standards, it was a media circus: from his vantage point on one of the hills, Mystery counted five distinct networks, with five groups of people trying to make their coverage of an empty field as distinct and interesting as possible. Of course, one thing united everyone down there, from the cameramen to the reporters to the drivers: not a single one of the humans had the slightest clue what was going on.

 

Unfortunately, Mystery couldn’t exactly look down on them—at least, not without working real hard at it—because he didn’t have any idea what had happened to Bluffstad either. And he’d tried almost everything he could think of, which admittedly wasn’t much in this case. He’d run around the valley, up and down both rows of hills, looking for any trace of the town, but its disappearance truly had left nothing behind.

 

Mystery pawed the ground with surprising force for a small dog, cutting right through a tree root with his claws. He  _couldn’t_  accept defeat. He’d left Arthur and Vivi alone with Lewis, without his protection. He had to get in there somehow— _any_  how.

 

He pawed the ground a few more times, digging deeper into the soil. Then, a thought struck him, as well as some flying earth: he shook himself and looked down at the hole he’d dug by mistake.

 

In his limited experience with this sort of thing, whenever a town or a room or a door disappeared, it never really  _moved_  in space: it just shunted over a dimension, so to speak. There was  _always_  a way to get from here to there, but he’d tried coming at it from the front, the rear, and both sides. It was time to try coming at it from below. Still in dog form—he could hardly risk stretching out with all the cameras around—he galloped down the hill as fast as his little legs could take him, panting with the exertion.

 

If any of WMTV’s keener-eyed viewers had been looking closely at the lower right corners of their screens, they would have seen a white dog with some ridiculous red and black hair. They’d have seen him dash into the frame, then start digging like he’d found the motherlode of buried bones. They’d have seen him disappear into the ground within seconds, and perhaps they’d have wondered how any dog could dig that quickly.

 

If anyone had been looking closely.


	5. Welcome to Echostad—Revelations in the House of the Dead

The first thing Vivi noticed upon entering the Pavelskis’ house was the stair lift near the door. Against the reddish wall and oaken stairs, the lift’s blank white rail stood out like a sore thumb—actually, the next time Vivi had a sore thumb, she figured she’d be saying it stuck out like that chair rail.

 

“So, here we are,” Joan said, standing aside to let Arthur walk in behind Vivi. “Home sweet home.” Vivi was used to hearing people say that with warmth, but apparently Joan was not one of those people.

 

“Is that for your dad?” Arthur asked, pointing at the stair lift.

 

“I had it installed last year,” Joan replied. “He hates using it, but he does need to.”

 

“But not today,” Vivi said, tapping her chin. “If he’d used it today, the chair would be sitting down here.” Indeed, it was at the upper landing instead.

 

Joan blinked. “Oh. I didn’t even notice that. How did I not notice?”

 

Vivi shrugged, then turned to Arthur. “You take the high road, I’ll take the low?”

 

“Um… sure,” Arthur said, grabbing his metal shoulder with his organic arm and shivering, for whatever reason.

 

He trudged upstairs as Vivi walked into the living room, which she couldn’t help but notice was plastered with mayoral memorabilia. One wall was covered in shelves, each with their own framed picture of Mayor Hyrum opening a road, or Mayor Hyrum shaking hands with some valedictorian, or Mayor Hyrum giving a speech from the town hall. There was only one picture without him: a photo of a slim, athletic woman ice skating in a black sequined dress. “Who’s that?” Vivi asked, looking at this picture.

 

“That’s me,” Joan replied. “About three years ago, at a championship.”

 

“Oh! Wow, you looked beautiful!” Vivi put her hand to her lips, turning around to see the rather less slim woman behind her. “That sounds really mean, on second thought.”

 

“It’s fine,” Joan sighed. “There’s not really many ice rinks around Bluffstad, so I just… make do. I try to get out during winters.”

 

On the other side of the room was a bookcase, and Vivi made a beeline for it. “Is there a secret passage behind this bookcase?” she asked, pulling out books at random and flipping through them. If Hyrum really had done this to the town, one of the books might contain the spell he’d used.

 

“That is an odd question.”

 

“I’m not hearing a  _no_ ….” Vivi grinned and pulled on a few spines experimentally, but none of them were the lever she was looking for.

 

“Stop that,” Joan said, putting her hand on one of the books to keep Vivi from pulling it out. “There’s no secret passage here. That would be ridiculous.”

 

“Or maybe it’s so secret that you just don’t know about it!” Vivi retrieved another book and scanned it, but it was just about some war. “One of these days, I’m gonna get a secret passage behind one of my bookcases. Mark my words.” She looked up at Joan. “Hey, has he gotten any new books recently? Or anything like that?”

 

“Not that I know about. And I  _would_  know—it’s getting to the point where I need to drive him to Kapp’s on the worse days.” Joan’s eyes narrowed. “Is that what you’re looking for? Strange books?”

 

“Maybe, maybe not. I’ll know it when I find it,” Vivi replied, jumping up and down to get glimpses of the top of the mantelpiece above the fireplace. “Has he ever expressed any interest in, you know, the occult? And do you have a stool I could stand on?”

 

“No—no? What sort of a question is that?” Joan’s jaw tensed. “Do you have  _any_  idea what you’re doing? Any at all?”

 

“So you don’t have a stool?” With a grunt, Vivi pulled the room’s coffee table over and stood on it, allowing her a clear view of the mantelpiece.

 

“You know that’s not what I meant—”

 

“And if you’re asking if I’m doing this ‘by the book’—there isn’t one. I mean, not a reputable book, just a bunch of pamphlets from hacks trying to snag a quick buck.” The mantelpiece lacked any spellbooks, symbols, or other supernatural paraphernalia, but there was a mirror hung on the wall above it. Vivi tilted the mirror to the side to check for a secret compartment.

 

“That was my mother’s! Don’t touch that!” Joan exclaimed, and Vivi yanked her hand away, leaving the mirror to swing freely as it returned to its resting position. Not that it mattered; she’d already confirmed, to her disappointment, that it wasn’t concealing but a blank patch of wall.

 

“And—and don’t climb on my table!” Vivi hopped down in compliance, as Joan rubbed her own face in annoyance. “Why did I even bring you two kids here?”

 

“Vivi?” said Arthur’s voice from upstairs. “Miss Pavelski?”

 

Arthur was calling her name. Vivi went on high alert from sheer instinct, crouching and getting ready to run—and then, half a second later, her brain caught up with her reflexes and informed her that Arthur wasn’t using his ‘in danger’ voice. He was barely raising his voice at all. “We’d better see what it is,” she said, and started up the stairs without waiting for her host.

 

* * *

 

 _There’s probably a knife up here or something you could use,_  said one of Arthur’s thoughts. _You know., if you want to duck out early. Before Lewis gets here._

 

As he mounted the landing, Arthur took a fistful of his own hair and pulled, gritting his teeth at the strain in his scalp. He couldn’t  _listen_  to this, not now. They were in the middle of a case, and the town needed him. Vivi needed him.

 

_Now, that’s not quite true anymore, is it? Lewis is coming home now. Vivi won’t need her training wheel for much longer._

 

“Stop it,” he muttered, opening the first door he saw—an unremarkable bathroom lay behind it. He did a methodical check of all the drawers anyway, hoping to quell the thoughts. They were always worse when he was alone—not that Vivi needed to know about it.

 

 _Big strong dead man Lewis._ _Latin lover boy Lewis._  There weren’t any magical tools underneath the sink, but he still took the time to peer into the corners of the space beneath its plumbing.  _Maybe_ _she’d come to talk to you once in a while, when the van needed_ _fixing._ Nothing in the closet either, except for old soaps and decade-old over-the-counter drugs. _Then again, maybe not._ _T_ _here are other mechanics._

 

Arthur left the bathroom, faced a wall, and knocked his head into it a few times. “I don’t have to listen,” he told himself. “I  _don’t_   _have_  to  _listen._ ”

 

_Just what you told yourself in the cave, right?_

 

“Stop it!” he spat out through gritted teeth, slamming another door open. Behind it was a dark bedroom, in which he saw a TV at one end and a bed at the other. He scanned the wall for a lightswitch, found one, and flipped it, turning on a bedside lamp. Now he could see the room in more detail: the TV was on a chest of drawers, adjacent to a wooden chair on one side and an armoire on the other. One wall was covered in pictures, which looked to be mostly of Mayor Hyrum from his five terms.

 

One other thing: the bed was occupied by a huge sleeping man.

 

“Oh, jeez!” Arthur spluttered, flipping the switch back off. “Sorry, Mayor Hyrum, I, uh, didn’t mean to disturb you—I’ll just… go now….” He left the room. A few seconds later, he re-entered it, almost on tiptoe from caution.

 

Why was Mayor Hyrum here, of all places? He’d just said he was going for a walk through Bluffstad, so why would he return home to sleep? But there was more than that, Arthur realized, because if this was Mayor Hyrum he saw in front of him, then Mayor Hyrum wasn’t sleeping.

 

Because Mayor Hyrum wasn’t breathing. There wasn’t any rise-fall to his chest, and the only sounds of inhalation or exhalation in the room were the increasingly frequent ones from Arthur.

 

Resisting an urge to walk closer and really see the body, Arthur stuck his head through the doorway and called down, “Vivi? Miss Pavelski?”

 

Within seconds, Vivi had barreled upstairs, with Joan cold on her heels. “What is it, Art?” Vivi asked.

 

Arthur tried to respond, but for some reason the words were catching in his throat; he pointed dumbly at the door he’d just left. Vivi cocked her head to the side. “Come on, Arthur, words. Talk to me.”

 

“Just… just look,” he managed to say.

 

Vivi shrugged, walked into the room, and stopped walking as if she’d hit a wall. “Oh. Goodness.”

 

“What is it?” Joan asked. “And why are you in my father’s bedroom?”

 

“Miss Pavelski, I am….” Arthur’s voice caught again. “I am so,  _so_  sorry. I don’t know how to tell you this, but….”

 

“Tell me what? You’re sorry about what?”

 

“He’s…  _dead_ ,” Vivi said from the bedroom. “Mayor Hyrum’s dead.”

 

“You—” Joan’s expression, one of mild confusion, didn’t change. It locked, as the words seemed to trickle into her body and rest upon her mind. “Dad?” She rushed into the bedroom, with Arthur following behind.

 

Despite how often Vivi and he dealt with life after death, Arthur didn’t usually have to worry about the transition itself—but there were exceptions. Arthur let himself shrink into the corner of the room as Vivi turned on the light and swept off the blankets, revealing Mayor Hyrum’s huge body in a white nightgown. He lay very still.

 

“D—Dad?” Half the strength in Joan’s body disappeared; she nearly crumpled to the floor, only halting her fall by clutching one of the bed’s newel posts. “No, he can’t… at the deli, I talked to him at the deli. He danced at me, for Christ’s sake.” She lost her grip on the wood. Arthur grabbed the room’s only chair and got it under her, just in time.

 

Vivi, her lips pursed, placed two fingers on Hyrum’s jugular and held them there for a few seconds. “Sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “No breathing, no pulse. And also….”

 

She grabbed his right arm and pulled up, but it didn’t move. “Rigor mortis.” Hyrum was wearing slippers: Vivi pulled one off to expose his left foot, which Arthur noticed was shaded with blue at the heel. “Lividity. He must have died in his sleep, last night. But how does that work….”

 

“I talked to him,” Joan said, her voice on the verge of catching. “I talked to him minutes ago, I… I argued with him. I shouted at him—the last thing I did, I….”

 

“Oh,” Vivi said. The word was little more than a breath. She turned around. “You  _did_  talk to him. We all did. And he was dead,  _while_  we were talking to him, and acting like he was alive. Completely undetectable to the outside observer. Do you know what that means?”

 

Arthur could tell that Joan hadn’t heard the question, but Vivi apparently didn’t care either way, and plowed on. “He’s a ghost. And not just that. Mayor Hyrum—your dad—is a ghost, _who doesn’t even know he’s a ghost._ ” She beamed. “Do you realize how  _incredible_  this—”

 

Joan let out a sob and buried her face in her hands. Vivi stopped beaming. “Yeah, I, uh… I’m gonna wait in the hall. Sorry.” Sheepishly, she left the room.

 

Arthur crouched next to Joan and laid his non-metal arm around her shoulders. “Sorry for your loss,” he said, then shrugged. “I know that probably doesn’t mean very much.”

 

Joan didn’t fight off his arm on her shoulders. For about half a minute, she simply sobbed into her hands, until the sobs slowed down. “I’m so awful,” she said at last.

 

“Awful?”

 

“I  _wanted_  this. Maybe not this specifically. Maybe not for him to die, but I was just so  _tired_  of looking after him, I wanted out, and….” She sniffed. “Who was I kidding. He’s an old man, I don’t trust nursing homes, I’m all the family he’s got—how else was this going to end? What else was I wishing for?”

 

“Hey, he’s not really gone, remember?” Arthur said, jostling her shoulders to try to shake her out of it. “And you didn’t make this happen.”

 

“How can you be sure?” Joan looked at him with no tears in her eyes—like she was too scared and confused to grieve properly. Arthur had seen that expression in mirrors. “I look at everything that’s happened today, and I don’t know  _what_  to believe. Maybe I’ll check my pockets and it’ll turn out I accidentally brought home, I don’t know, a monkey paw or something.”

 

“Miss Pavelski, look at me, okay?” Arthur looked into her face and tried to sound sincere. “Bad things happen sometimes, and we can’t control them. You didn’t kill him. This isn’t your fault.”

 

Her brow furrowed. “You don’t even look like  _you_  believe that,” she said, her voice nearly catching.

 

Arthur looked away and closed his eyes—a bit redundant, perhaps. “He’s still here,” he said. “We can go find him, and everything will be okay.”

 

“I hope so.” With a deep breath, Joan stood, and with his arm still around her shoulder, Arthur got pulled up with her. “We shouldn’t keep your friend waiting. And maybe it didn’t help so much, but….” She smiled at him for a second. “Thank you for trying, at any rate.”

 

“It’s what I do,” Arthur said.

 

They left the room to find Vivi leaning against a wall, absentmindedly checking her phone. As they walked out, she shoved it back in her pocket and led the way down the stairs. “Feeling better now?” she asked. “Hopefully that’s a ‘yes’, because I think this all  _proves_  that your dad has something to do with what happened to the town. So you know what that means?”

 

If it wasn’t just Arthur’s imagination, it was a lot darker in the Pavelskis’ front hall than it had been. Like there wasn’t any light coming in through the windows. Two and two were in Arthur’s head, but he wouldn’t put them together to make four in time.

 

Vivi looked back at them as she grabbed the door handle, and said, “If we want to get anywhere on this case, we need to find that ghost.”

 

She opened the door, still looking their way, which meant she didn’t notice that she was stepping out not onto the Pavelskis’ front walk, but into Lewis’s mansion. Not until she walked right into Lewis himself.

 

His skull was already aflame, his hands clenched in fists, and his cracked heart pulsed an angry orange. He stood before the door like an obelisk—fixed, immovable—but Vivi looked up at him, and he looked down at her, and….

 

Skulls, especially without jaws, were not known for their expressiveness, but even so, the hard lines of this one became soft as he stared at her. His heart pulsed blue, and for a moment Arthur could almost see Lewis’s face over his skull, looking tenderly down at Vivi as if nothing had changed in a year.

 

“Uh,” Vivi said, “hi again, Mr. Techno Ghost? It’s nice to meet you?” She lifted her right hand and waved.

 

Lewis drew back a few centimeters, as if these words had done him physical harm. Then his gaze refocused, not on her but on Arthur. Any softness in his skull, real or imagined, was gone. Again his heart pulsed orange.

 

Behind Arthur, the door back into the Pavelskis’ slammed shut and locked itself. He jumped at the noise, then looked back around to see Lewis’s hand pointed at him, open-palmed. There was a ball of flame in front of the palm, and it was growing.

 

“Okay, bye,” Vivi said. She grabbed Joan’s right arm, Arthur’s left arm, and ran. Arthur let himself get dragged along behind her, though he couldn’t have disengaged his metal fingers from her hand in any case, considering her grip strength.

 

“What’s going on?” Joan yelled, as she ran too. Arthur glanced over his shoulder to see Lewis’s hand still reaching for them. The gesture almost looked forlorn, except for the glowing ball of flame, nearly ready to fire.

 

“Remember that ghost I mentioned who hates Arthur?” Vivi yelled to Joan. “ _That’s him!_  Now _turn!_ ”

 

There was a bend in the corridor just ahead, and the three of them veered to the right—and just in time, because Lewis had just fired the flameball. With the sound of an explosion it flew up the hallway at them, setting the whole thing ablaze in its wake, and impacted against the wall just as the three of them cleared the corner.

 

The flames singed the hairs on Arthur’s neck, and the rush of heat enveloped his body.  _That was too close. He’s going to kill her if he’s not careful… if she stays too close to his target._ “Vivi—” he started to say, trying to move his fingers within her grasp.

 

“Jar it, Art!”

 

The corridor in front of them ended in an ornately carved door, one with a fancy lock and key—which were keeping it closed. Vivi turned the key, then tried to force open the door, but it was stuck: she kicked it a few times until it unjammed. “Through here!” she yelled, pushing Joan through in front of herself, then yanking on Arthur’s prosthetic arm. “Come on, Arthur, he’s coming!”

 

“Yeah, he is,” Arthur said. And with a certain shrugging motion—a command he’d programmed into the prosthetic when he’d built it—he detached his arm. Vivi, still holding the hand, fell backward through the doorway and onto her butt. Before she could do anything more than stare up at him, Arthur slammed the door shut and locked it with his remaining arm.

 

“Arthur?” Vivi said. “Arthur, what are you  _doing?_  Open this door. Open it now!” He heard her pound her fists against the door as he looked at the key for a moment, then tossed it down the corridor. He didn’t want to be tempted.

 

“Vivi?” he said, looking straight at the door. He pressed his one hand against it, his face close enough that if it had been a window, he’d have been fogging the glass. It might as well have been a window: he could visualize exactly what Vivi was doing on the other side. He saw her incomprehension.

 

“Are you trying to be some kind of stupid martyr?  _OPEN!_ ” Now the door shook at the lock with every impact: she was trying to kick it down.

 

“Vivi, there’s some things I haven’t told you.”

 

His voice was tired and quiet. She stopped kicking at the door. If he knew her, and he did, she was leaning toward him, maybe trying to peer through the keyhole. “Arthur, what are you talking about?”

 

“It’s about my arm, and that cave a year ago, and Mystery… and mostly, it’s about that ghost.” He let his forehead rest on the wood. “I know who he is.”

 

“How can you know who—”

 

“Because I  _killed_  him, okay?” Arthur shouted. “He’s dead! Because of  _me_.”

 

“ _What?_ ” The word seemed to echo down the hall, or maybe it was just in Arthur’s head. In the quiet behind him, he heard what sounded like a muted gale, or perhaps a gas fire, getting closer. It was a sort of peaceful sound.

 

“Arthur,” Vivi said, her face and hands pressed against the door, “I have seen you freak out from stepping on an ant by mistake. How in the solar system could you kill someone?”

 

“Long story.” Arthur took a deep breath, his eyes closed. “You can do it, Vivi. Get out of here. Save the town—you don’t need me for that. I never help very much anyway.”

 

“No, Arthur—Arthur, open this door! Get out of there!” She was pounding on the door again.

 

“Thanks for everything, Vivi,” Arthur said. “Goodbye.” He turned around and Lewis was there, standing a few yards away. His huge frame almost filled the corridor, but behind him Arthur could just barely see the other end of the hallway still alight from Lewis’s attack.

 

“Welcome back!”

 

Arthur hadn’t seen the four portraits appear—it must have been while he was speaking to Vivi—but there they were, each one staring at him as they spoke in unison. The Luchador wore a murderous grimace beneath his mask; the Minister had a solemn expression, like a priest administering last rites on death row; the Duchess sported a wicked smile; and the Prosecutor just squinted.

 

Lewis didn’t do any of those things: he glared coldly down at Arthur, motionless except for the beat of his heart and a slight flickering of his flame hair. Whatever he felt, it was beyond anything so trivial as anger.

 

Arthur’s shoulders slackened. “Hey, Lewis.”

 

* * *

 

“Get out of there!” Vivi shouted, pounding the door with both fists at once.

 

“Thanks for everything, Vivi,” Arthur said. “Goodbye.” It was the most horrible thing, but Arthur almost sounded…  _content_ , saying that.

 

“No!” she yelled. She grabbed Arthur’s arm, and with a scream of anger she swung it at the door like an axe, but it just bounced off. The door was too sturdy: she’d never break through it.

 

“Is—is there another way?” Joan asked. “To save your friend—is there something else we can do?”

 

“There had  _damn_ well  _BETTER_  be!” Vivi whirled around and started pacing, prodding her skull with a finger, like the tap on a barrel. “Find another route? Too easy to get lost, too slow.” She spoke at breakneck speed. “Try and get help—same problem, too slow. Break the friggin’ door down—too slow, too slow,  _too slow!_ ”

 

She kicked the door again, but this time she heard a crack. Her mouth popped open with astonishment—had she really kicked it that hard?—and she gave the door a few more whacks, but it wasn’t budging, and there wasn’t any evidence of damage.

 

Then she heard the second crack, and realized it hadn’t been the door at all.

 

She turned from the door to stare at the carpeted floor, from which the sound had come. And from which, within moments, several more cracks issued: the sound of old wood being pushed to its breaking point. “What is that?” she murmured, keeping her distance.

 

A massive white paw, fully as big as her head, burst through the floor and carpet. Splinters of wood flew everywhere, and Vivi had to bring her arm up to protect her face. “ _What the hell is that?_ ” Joan shrieked, as the claws on the paw glinted in the purple light.

 

* * *

 

At last, Lewis spoke. “ _You killed me._ ”

 

His voice had always been deep, but these words were more than that: they were cold and dark and had the weight of lead, and they reverberated in ways a wooden corridor should not have permitted. His gaze never left Arthur, so Arthur looked away first, letting his head droop down.

 

“ _You admit it._ ”

 

Arthur sighed. “Screw it… yeah.” It was as close to the truth as he’d managed to tell for a whole year.

 

“ _Ha!_  As if we needed the confession,” the Luchador said, snorting. “It’s time to let  _justice_  be done, and  _vengeance_  be  _taken!_ ”

 

The Minister nodded. “Quite. I see no need to prolong this any further.”

 

Arthur bent down, trying to use his left arm for support as he sat on the floor, forgetting that he didn’t have it. He lost his balance and fell on his side. In his peripheral vision, Lewis’s arm stretched out, the palm pointed his way. “I’m sorry,” Arthur said, closing his eyes. The growing pink light shone through his eyelids, brighter and brighter each second.

 

“Gracious! What’s happened to his arm?”

 

This was the Duchess. Arthur looked up to see her staring down at his empty left sleeve. “What’s happened to your arm, Demon?” she asked.

 

“It’s, um….” Arthur sat up. “Never mind.”

 

There was a ruffling of papers as the Prosecutor picked up a folder from behind his table. “That was the arm he used to make the fatal push, was it not?” he said, peering at the documents within the folder. “And now the very same arm is missing. Is this not curious?”

 

“ _Who cares?_ ” the Luchador bellowed. “Incinerate him!”

 

Lewis wasn’t moving, and the fireball at his palm wasn’t growing. “You should be begging for your life,” he whispered, as his arm slackened by a few millimeters. Then it went straight again, and the fireball burned brighter as he roared, “ _BEG!_ ”

 

“No, Lewis. Don’t do it,” Arthur said.

 

The Duchess brought a gloved hand to her mouth, and the Minister’s eyes bulged.

 

“We’ve moved too quickly.” One of the Prosecutor’s hands ran shakily through his hair, as the other flipped through sheaves of paper on his desk. “Vivi’s memory, the arm—there’s something here we don’t understand.”

 

Lewis stood amidst his aspects, staring past Arthur instead of at him.

 

“And he isn’t running,” the Duchess said, her mouth open in slightly controlled shock. “A Demon would never have locked himself in for punishment, and  _Arthur_  would never have stopped running at all.”

 

The orange heart on Lewis’s chest was dimming, its pulses becoming less violent.

 

The Minister crossed himself. “God on high, they’re right. We can’t do this.”

 

“Yes, we  _can_ _!_ ” the Luchador bellowed. “And yes, we  _WILL!_ ”

 

“ _Shut up!_ ” the other three yelled at him, but they didn’t have his volume. Lewis’s heart blazed orange once more.

 

“ _Asesino!_ ” The Luchador drowned the other three out, and Lewis’s fire grew brighter. “He _murdered_  us! He  _SMILED_  at our  _death_ _!_  Pay him back!  _KILL HIM!_ ”

 

Arthur bowed his head one last time. “I’m sorry,” he said, as with a sound like a missile launch, Lewis fired.

 

* * *

 

The paw pulled back into the ground, leaving Vivi and Joan on opposite sides of the gash in the mansion’s floor. Vivi stood with her back to the door, heart racing as adrenaline surged through her arteries. She had to be ready for  _anything_  to come through that hole.

 

For several seconds nothing did, and the loudest sounds she heard were her own pounding heartbeats, her own rapid breaths. There were voices coming from behind the door, but she couldn’t make them out. And then another white paw poked through the hole, but it wasn’t huge: it was the size of a dog’s paw. Not just any dog, either.

 

“I don’t believe it….” Vivi’s jaw dropped as the second paw made it up, and then a head poked up into the hallway, with a mane of red and black fur. “ _Mystery?_ ” She had not been ready for that.

 

Mystery leaped and landed in the hallway, then shook himself free of some of the dirt that covered him. He looked around the corridor, then made a beeline for Vivi, his tail wagging furiously. “Mystery, you  _incredible_  little canine!” Vivi exclaimed, picking him up and hugging him.

 

“How did he—whose claws were those?” Joan said.

 

“Not now!” Vivi waved her off with one hand as she set Mystery down. “Mystery, it’s the ghost from last night and he’s gonna kill Arthur, and Arthur’s gone  _crazy!_  He’s locked himself in, he says he  _killed_  the guy!” She smacked the door behind her with an open palm. “We need to find another way through the mansion before he’s turned to ashes! Can you find us a path?”

 

Mystery walked past her and stared at the door. His tail wasn’t wagging.

 

“Isn’t he just a dog?” Joan asked. “He can’t find another path any better than you or me, can he?”

 

“Oh, Mystery is not just  _any_  dog,” Vivi said proudly. “He’s smarter than the average pet. You’ll see—he’ll find a way!”

 

But Mystery didn’t seem to be doing any such thing. He stared at the door with uncommon determination, and made a slight growl. Then he lowered his front and reared up his back in a stretch.

 

“Mystery, we can’t get through—”

 

Vivi stopped herself, because Mystery kept stretching, and he wasn’t looking much like Mystery anymore. His body was lengthening, his muscles thickening. At his rear, six indistinct shapes shimmered like heat haze, becoming more and more distinct. And the friendly snout he’d nuzzled against her so many times was getting longer, like a wolf’s.

 

“ _Is this what you meant?_ ” Joan yelled, as Vivi backed away, almost falling into the hole. Vivi tried to reply, but had no words.

 

With a feral roar, the thing that had been Mystery charged.

 

* * *

 

Arthur bowed his head one last time. “I’m sorry,” he said, as with a sound like a missile launch, Lewis fired.

 

And then everything behind him exploded into splinters. A huge shape bounded over him and straight through the fireball, and didn’t seem to notice as the flames evaporated against its fur. Its guttural roar filled the hall as the beast tackled Lewis and pinned him to the ground. As his skull struck the carpet, the portraits disappeared into thin air.

 

Arthur glanced behind himself to see Vivi and Joan on the other side of what had recently been a door. The two women shared the same open-mouthed look of astonishment. Then he looked forward again and saw the beast’s jaw wide open, drool glinting off the teeth that were inches away from Lewis’s skull. “Don’t hurt him, Mystery!” Arthur called out.

 

“You—you know that’s Mystery,” Vivi stammered, “ _how_  do you know that thing is Mystery?”

 

Lewis struggled beneath Mystery’s paws, but the beast had the definite size advantage, and Lewis could do nothing but shout with pain and anger. “Mystery, stop!” Arthur yelled, running to his side.

 

Mystery’s head turned to him, and they locked gazes through his yellow glasses. “Tell him how it  _really_  happened, Arthur,” he said, in a voice that sounded terribly close to the roar of seconds before.

 

“He can  _TALK?_ ” Vivi blurted.

 

“You  _can_  talk!” Arthur shouted.

 

Vivi clapped both hands to her head, upsetting her half-moon glasses. “You  _KNEW_  he could talk?”

 

“I  _thought_  he probably could—”

 

“I can talk. And  _so can you_ ,” Mystery said, emphasizing each of those three words. “No more lies, Arthur. Tell him how it happened,  _now._ ”

 

“I….” Arthur looked down into where Lewis’s eyes would have been, and Lewis glared back up with impotent fury. “Lewis, when we were in the cave, I….” He stopped, because he didn’t have any idea how to start.

 

Mystery growled, his six giant tails bristling. “I told you to  _listen_ ,” he said, returning his gaze to Lewis, “but that’s no good unless someone speaks, is it? Well, I  _can_  talk.” With no warning he let all four paws slide off Lewis’s body, then grabbed his collarbone between his teeth. One jerk of the head later, and Lewis skidded down the carpet, coming to a halt with a grunt of pain just before the burned corner. “Why’d we go into that cave, Lewis Hernandez?”

 

As Lewis pulled himself painfully to his feet, Mystery advanced upon him step by step. “Don’t you remember,” he said, “we went in there because we thought it harbored an evil spirit? And then, when your best friend pushed you over the edge, for no reason at all, didn’t you wonder if maybe there was something  _more_  going on? You had a whole  _year_ , and you never even _thought_  of that, Lewis?”

 

“I—he  _killed me!_ ” Lewis was at his full formidable height, looking down on Mystery and showing no signs of backing away. His fiery hair glowed ever brighter. He pounded his hand against his chest, against the ribs that showed over his burial suit. “ _He did this to me!_ ”

 

“No,” Mystery growled. “Something did this  _to him_ , and to  _you._  Didn’t you see his face? Didn’t you see how half of it was  _green_ , how his eye had gone  _black_ _?_  Does  _that_  sound like Arthur to you, Lewis?”

 

“He was _SMILING!_ ” Lewis’s hair erupted in a pillar of fire, scorching the walls and ceiling black. Arthur backed away and lifted his arm to protect his eyes from the blinding light.

 

“ _He was CRYING, Lewis!_ ” Mystery bellowed back. “ _Crying_ , with the only part of himself he had  _left!_  And he would have lost that too within seconds, if I hadn’t  _torn_  his  _arm_  off, and the spirit with it! Did you even  _look?_  Do you even  _care?_ ”

 

“What are you  _talking_  about?” Vivi shrieked.

 

Lewis’s flames all died away, and his heart went blue. He, Mystery, and Arthur turned back to see her still open-mouthed with astonishment, but the expression had fused with anger. “What are you talking about?” she repeated. “There wasn’t anyone else in that cave. You got your shoulder impaled on a spike, Arthur, and they had to amputate because it was infected. We never found any spirit.  _Nothing_  else  _happened!_ ”

 

In the silence that followed, Arthur stepped toward her. “Vivi,” he murmured, “I said before that there was something that you….” He came to a halt with his feet and his mouth.

 

“Something that I  _what._ ”

 

“F… F…  _F_ _orgot_.” He had to spit the word out. “You forgot. And you keep forgetting that you’ve forgotten.”

 

“All right,” she said, in a voice not much louder but much colder than his. She stepped past him. “Someone is going to tell me what in Acheron’s frigging  _mouth_  is going on here.”

 

Lewis stared down at her, all of his fury drained away, along with—it seemed—all of his ability to move. Mystery sniffed up at him. “It’s time to decide why you came back, Lewis,” he said. “Was it for him, or for her?”

 

Lewis’s sockets closed in a long, slow blink. Then he walked around Mystery and toward the waiting girl. “Vivi,” he said, and this time his voice didn’t echo.

 

“How do you know my name?”

 

“Vivi, my name is Lewis Hernandez.” His heart, which had lain against his breast, started to float toward her. “When I lived, I was a member of the Mystery Skulls.”

 

“No, you weren’t,” Vivi said.

 

Lewis flinched away, ever so slightly, and his heart stopped—but it started up again a moment later, and he pressed on. “We worked cases together.”

 

“No, we didn’t.”

 

“I loved you.”

 

“I don’t know you.” Her denials were getting louder.

 

“And you loved me, Vivi.” His assertions were getting gentler.

 

“I have never met you in my  _life!_ ”

 

“Please.” His heart was inches from her now. “Open it. You’ll see.”

 

“I don’t—” She laughed, or gasped, or something, as she grabbed the heart in both hands—and Arthur realized that it was in fact a locket. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” One finger undid the clasp. “I have never, ever met anyone named _—_ ”

 

The locket fell open. Inside was a picture of Lewis hugging Vivi, her eyes closed and her mouth open with glee. It was from when they’d been happy, and the Vivi of the present looked at it with her jaw slack. And then—

 

Maybe it was a trick of the light, but Arthur didn’t think so: Vivi’s eyes flashed solid purple for a moment, and violet sparks arced between them and the locket. When the light went away, her eyes were glassy and fixed.

 

Then she exhaled, her eyes closed, and she crumpled down. “Vivi!” Lewis cried, catching her before her head hit the floor. The locket, still in her hands and still blue, closed once more.


	6. Welcome to Echostad—Rooftop Concert

Vivi’s unconscious body was tiny in Lewis’s arms. “Vivi,” he murmured, kneeling on the carpet. “Oh, Vivi….” His gloved hand tousled her hair with almost fearful gentleness, as if one wrong move could break her like porcelain.

 

Mystery grunted. “She’s just had a shock. She’ll be fine—probably—but some fresh air would help. Lewis, get her outside.” Lewis didn’t answer, but he stood and started walking. Mystery padded along behind him.

 

“Do you need any help with her?” Arthur asked, as Lewis passed him.

 

The reaction was immediate: Lewis’s eye sockets went solid magenta with fury, and his hair blazed anew. “ _Don’t TOUCH her!_ ” he bellowed, right into Arthur’s face.

 

Arthur yelped and jumped back into the wall—and then Mystery insinuated himself between the two of them, baring just a hint of teeth. “Tut-tut,” he said. “No one likes a boy who throws tantrums, Lewis.”

 

Lewis’s ‘eyes’ faded back to normal, or at least normal for him: pink rings hovering inside his eye sockets. Still, he didn’t back away. “I don’t have to listen to a  _pet dog_ ,” he said.

 

“I’m not the nice  _pet dog_  you thought I was, remember.” Mystery grinned, revealing more of his teeth. “But if you want to keep thinking of me as one—well, dogs bury bones, don’t they?” One of his tails whipped forward to slap Lewis’s skull. Lewis flinched at the impact, and Mystery winked. “Get moving.”

 

Lewis stared at him for a few seconds more, then turned away and kept walking down the corridor. Mystery grunted in satisfaction.

 

“Here,” someone said, and Arthur looked up to see Joan Pavelski carrying his prosthetic. “Your friend dropped this.”

 

In all the tumult, he’d forgotten she was there. “Are you okay?” he asked.

 

“I’m feeling overwhelmed by everything, but I’m not hurt.” She held the prosthetic to his shoulder, and he maneuvered his stump into the metal arm’s connector until he heard the click, and felt those fingers again. “And why are  _you_  asking  _me_  that question?” she asked, as he wriggled the fingers to test them. “You nearly  _burned_.”

 

Arthur shrugged. “As long as everyone’s okay.”

 

He started following Lewis, but Joan still held his arm. “Are  _you_  okay?” she asked. He twisted his arm to get it of her grasp, but she stayed close behind him as he kept walking. “Have you ever heard an expression that goes, ‘Don’t set yourself on fire to keep others warm?’”

 

He didn’t answer, and she sighed as she stepped through the remains of the door that Mystery had pulverized. “You kids need to find yourselves some psychiatrists,” she muttered.

 

The mansion might have been a labyrinth, but Lewis was its master, and he knew the way. Vivi still in his arms, he strode down the building’s hallways as Arthur hurried along behind, with Joan behind him. Within a minute they’d reached the spacious front hall and its grand double door entrance. “Or,” Mystery said, as Lewis waved a hand at the doors and they opened, “you could have disappeared the mansion around us.”

 

Lewis gave him a withering glance: if he’d still had eyes to roll, Arthur was pretty sure that would have been the time—but then he saw, through the open double doors, what had happened to the town. He stood stiff as a board, looking up at echo after echo. If he’d still had a jaw to drop….

 

“Yeah,” Arthur mumbled, walking outside and giving Lewis a wide berth. “It’s been a pretty hectic day all around.”

 

Mystery walked out beside him, giving the echoes a steady stare. “So  _this_  is what happened,” he said, almost purring. “This is where you humans have been. It really was quite a pain to find you, Arthur.”

 

“Thanks.” Arthur rubbed his metal arm, giving it a once-over. It had been through a lot today, and he’d need to take a look at it later—now that he had a  _later_  to look forward to.

 

_Lewis isn’t going to kill me._ _Probably._

 

“Hey, Mystery,” Arthur said, “Vivi figured out something. Bluffstad’s not just being repeated—the echoes are—”

 

“That’s Vivi and me in the park,” Mystery said, his eyes fixed on one particular point that Arthur couldn’t make out very well. “I was being uncooperative with a frisbee, and that was about a week ago. These echoes are in the past, yes?” he finished, returning his attention to Arthur. “Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

 

“That was… that was fast.”

 

“What can I say?” Mystery smirked. “I’m the canniest canine you’re ever going to meet.” He turned around, and Arthur followed the movement to see Lewis still on the step of the mansion, still staring and still holding Vivi. “Lewis, put her down,” Mystery said. “She doesn’t need your arm bones sticking into her back.”

 

Lewis knelt and laid Vivi on the grass, then pushed her hair back so that it didn’t lie on her face. “Vivi,” he whispered, “oh, Vivi, what’s happened to you?”

 

“ _Or_  we could  _prioritize_ ,” Mystery said. “Oh, don’t give me that look—” for Lewis had just shot him a white-hot glare “—I want to know what’s wrong with her too, but we have other problems. Arthur, did the two of you figure out anything about the town?”

 

“It’s my father.”

 

Mystery side-eyed Joan, who was standing at a distance from the group. “You’re… Joan Pavelski, aren’t you. What does Mayor Hyrum have to do with this?”

 

“He….” Joan took a deep breath. “I guess he died last night. Just natural causes, nothing to be done about it, but… I saw him walking and talking today. He’s a ghost, just like—” she pointed at Lewis. “But my dad doesn’t know what’s happened to him.” She coughed, pressing her fingers against her forehead. “I can’t believe I’m saying that—to a dog, even—but your friend Vivi thought he had something to do with it.”

 

“Not a dog,” Mystery muttered. “And… does your father, by any chance, usually watch the _news_  before going to bed? Apologies— _did_  he?”

 

“What kind of a question is—” Joan sighed. “Yes. Yes, he watches… watched in bed.”

 

“Well, there you go.”

 

With a self-satisfied smile, Mystery turned back to face the echoes. Unfortunately, whatever Mystery meant by “there you go”, Arthur didn’t see it, and it seemed as though no one else did either. Finally, Joan was the one to speak up. “There we go, what?”

 

“Not much of a man for change, Mayor Hyrum, was he?” Mystery glanced back their way, still wearing that smile. “No love for the current mayor.  _Certainly_  no love for someone doing things to  _his_  beloved town. Arthur, do you remember what was on the news last night?”

 

“Uh, Lewis’s mansion?” Arthur said. Lewis glanced up at him from his position beside Vivi. “Oh yeah, Lewis, your mansion was on the news last night.” Lewis didn’t respond, and returned his attention to Vivi.

 

“And  _after_  that?”

 

“I mean, I guess there was the groundbreaking on—”

 

“Groundbreaking on the  _tunnel_ ,” Mystery interrupted. “The new tunnel, the current mayor’s brainchild—faster commutes to and from the town! And all it takes is an ugly hole through Bluffstad’s borders, but Mayor Hyrum doesn’t like that very much at all, does he? He goes to sleep angry. He  _dies_  angry, focused on all the changes since he ran Bluffstad Plains, wishing that  _nothing_  would change.

 

“And now he’s in paradise.” Mystery waved a paw at the echoes. “If anything’s changed, he can just walk to a time when it hasn’t, and on his own two feet. No cane required.”

 

Joan’s eyes were narrow and her jaw slack. “You’re saying that all this happened— _all_  this—just because my father  _wished_  for it.”

 

“Of course I am.” Mystery looked up at her through narrow eyes of his own. “Do you have _any_  idea how powerful a dying wish can be?”

 

Lewis gasped—no, not even a gasp: it was too strangled. His hand, which had been resting in Vivi’s hair, jumped away. “A dying wish,” he said, his chest heaving even without lungs behind it. “ _Por dios…_  this was my wish.”

 

“What?” Arthur said.

 

“We went high, she went low.” Lewis was shaking. One of his hands found his locket and gripped it close. “She saw the cavern, just like we did, but she saw its floor.”

 

“Lewis, what are you—”  
  


“And then you  _KILLED_  me!” Lewis bellowed, standing up to his full height and rounding on Arthur. Mystery moved in and bared his fangs as Arthur retreated a step, but Lewis paid neither of them any heed. “And she  _watched_  me fall! She watched me  _die_ , Arthur!”

 

 _Oh, God,_  Arthur thought, as his knees buckled. Not once, in the year since the cave, had he ever considered that Vivi might have seen it happen.

 

“And I know she watched,” Lewis continued, his hands clenching into fists, “because I _watched_  her do it. And that was my last thought. My dying wish. For her to have not seen that—to not  _remember_  that.”

 

Mystery sniffed. “And you couldn’t control it, just like Mayor Hyrum couldn’t control what he did to the town. Be careful what you wish for, eh, Lewis?”

 

Lewis’s hair looked hot enough to melt steel. His eyes solid magenta once more, he turned on Mystery, his hands halfway outstretched and held open like talons, ready to strange the beast. Tongues of flame flickered about them.

 

“Lewis….”

 

The color bled away from Lewis’s eyes, and his hands fell to his sides. With great hesitation, he turned back to where Vivi lay still—except she wasn’t lying still anymore, Arthur saw. She was starting to move. “Lewis…” she murmured again.

 

“Vivi?” Lewis hurried to her side.

 

Her eyes opened and fixed on Lewis. “Lewis Hernandez.” The words came out clear as a bell on a cold day.

 

“Vivi? You—you remember?”

 

“That’s your name, isn’t it? Lewis Hernandez?” She sat up and pushed herself to her feet, her gaze not leaving his skull.

 

“You remember!” Lewis surged forward and engulfed her in a huge hug. “ _You remember me!_ ” He was leaning into her as if he were a crutch, his body shaking with what could have been sobs. All the hard lines in his skull—they were still there, but there was a different quality about them: instead of anger, they expressed boundless relief.

 

* * *

 

 _Well,_  Vivi thought, and none too nicely,  _this is really gonna kill him._  She didn’t hug the skeleton back, or close her eyes, or even smile. She just leaned in and whispered, “I  _don’t_ remember you.”

 

He fell away from her, staggering several steps backward. “What?”

 

“I don’t remember a single thing about you.” She didn’t raise her voice, but she didn’t need to.

 

“But….” One of his hands involuntarily reached toward her. “But you said my name….”

 

“You said it five minutes ago, just before I passed out. I remember  _that_. But as far as I recall, you and I met for the first time last night.” She folded her arms. “When you nearly  _murdered_ Arthur. Oh, and  _me_ —did you notice that?”

 

It was gratifying, watching the ghost in front of her deflate like an inflatable Halloween decoration. “Vivi…” he wheezed.

 

“But I can see the  _gaps_  now.” Her voice still quiet, she looked away from him and to the ground. She had a feeling her face was about to show some tenderness that he  _absolutely_ did not deserve. “I’m looking back at my memories, and I can see there’s missing hours. Missing days. Things that just don’t make any sense.”

 

The more she thought, the more things came up: the redcap incident, a certain case at Pepper Paradiso… the cave. Apparently it had been the most important night of her life, and she’d hardly spared it a thought over the past year—and every thought she had spared had been  _deflected_ , by some weird mental block.

 

“The gaps were there, but I couldn’t see them before,” she continued. “And I think that, maybe, there’s someone I’ve forgotten. And just maybe….” She closed her eyes, and the ghost of a smile graced her face. “Just maybe, I think I might have loved him very much.”

 

“Vivi… I—”

 

“But you listen here,” Vivi said, interrupting him without raising her voice. She erased her smile and locked gazes with him again. “If I ever loved a man named Lewis Hernandez, it was because he was kind. And good. And he probably had a pretty good head on his shoulders, too. He would  _never_ —” she shook her head sharply “—try to kill his own best friend, no matter what… and  _certainly_  not before knowing all the facts. So now you come here and try to tell me  _you_  are that man?”

 

The ghost averted his eyes. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she said. “If I knew you any better, I think I’d be ashamed of you too.”

 

Sounds came from the ghost, and they came close to being words, but after several false starts he had nothing to say. It looked like her work there was done, but there was much more to do elsewhere.

 

She whirled around to Arthur and summoned up her temper like a flashfire. “And I’m pretty _friggin’_  cheddared off at you!” she shouted. “You stupid donkeypit!”

 

Arthur flinched at the exclamation. “Me?”

 

“ _You knew!_ ”

 

Vivi was shorter than Arthur, but she didn’t let that stop her from stomping toward him, towering over him with anger. She jabbed her right index finger at the ghost. “You knew about  _him_ , about  _Mystery—_ you knew I’d forgotten something  _life-changing!_  And you could have told me  _whenever!_  What was stopping you, huh?”

 

“I—I tried!” Arthur stammered. “I tried, I really did, but… I didn’t know what was wrong with you. Whether it was a spooky thing or a psychological thing, or….”

 

Vivi’s arms were folded as she glared at him, and it seemed to be dawning on Arthur—the stupidest genius she knew—that he hadn’t tried hard enough. “I didn’t know what would happen to you if I really pressed it,” he finished. “If you’d lose your mind, or something.”

 

“Well, now we know!” Vivi threw her hands up in the air. “Apparently I’d have passed out for a few minutes, and then I’d have woken up—and I would have  _thanked_  you!” She felt her voice choking up now, stabbing her rage in the back. “You’re my best friend in the  _world_ ,” she said, as her arms hung limp, and she found her anger ebbing away like a storm surge, leaving dead debris in its wake. “But you let me live out a  _lie_. For a  _year_.”

 

Arthur ran his hand up his face and through his hair. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I just… I wanted you to be happy.”

 

“Do I  _look_  happy?” She took a deep breath, and her gaze fell to his shoes. The damndest thing was, she  _believed_  him about being sorry—but she’d believed him for the past year, too. “Sorry isn’t good enough,” she said in a monotone. “If you can’t tell me the truth, then you can’t be on the team.” Her eyes came back up and met his, and her jaw clenched. “You’re out of the Mystery Skulls.”

 

He almost lost his footing at this, like she’d struck him in the chest with a news like a hammer. “What?” he gasped, clutching his metal arm. Mohammed H. Gautama, it hurt her to hurt him like this, but….

 

“You can’t keep me from the truth, Arthur.” Another deep breath. “Please don’t make me say it again.”

 

Mystery, who’d been standing at the side, spoke up. “Vivi,” he said, “you’re angry, you’re not thinking clearly. Just calm down—”

 

If he’d fumbled a lit match in a grain silo, it wouldn’t have been so careless as his choice of words. “ _Don’t_  tell me to ‘ _calm down_ ’!” she screeched, rounding on Mystery. “And don’t get me started on  _you_ , you dog-wolf-kitsune-whatever-you-are, because apparently you could have told me all those things  _just fine_! Get out, both of you!” She pointed off behind him, and to her immense satisfaction, he backed away a few steps.

 

“Then,” the ghost said, his tone hopeful, “does that mean I’m back on—”

 

“ _ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FLIPPING PUMPKIN?_ ” Vivi shrieked, as she turned to face him. “You tried to  _murder_  my best friend! Get out, and take your stupid techno mansion with you!”

 

That was everyone. “Vivi,” Arthur said, “you can’t have the Mystery Skulls with just one person.”

 

“Then I guess there’s  _NO MORE MYSTERY SKULLS!_ ”

 

Vivi shouted these last words to the occluded sky. Then she started stomping away. She had no idea where she was going, but as long as it put those three jerks behind her, she was okay with it. “Worst ‘ _friends_ ' ever,” she muttered.

 

She heard hurried footsteps behind her, and then a metal hand on her shoulder. “Vivi, please,” Arthur said, as Vivi shrugged off his hand and kept walking. “Please, just… just….”

 

“Just  _what_ , Arthur?” She glanced over her shoulder for a moment. “Just let the attempted murderer back on the team? Or how about the serial liar, or maybe the horrible demon dog? I’d have better luck holding auditions at the state penitentiary!”

 

“Vivi, he  _KILLED_  me!” the ghost roared, his hair blazing again, like that was supposed to impress her. “He  _ADMITTED_  it! You  _heard_  him!”

 

“ _Well!_ ” Vivi shouted, matching him decibel for decibel. “I guess you should have known better than to  _trust_  him!”

 

“ _STOP IT!_ ”

 

This was the loudest voice of all. Vivi stopped, and the three of them looked back at Mystery. He’d retreated to the front step of Lewis’s mansion, and was growling—panting, even. “Stop fighting,” he said through clenched teeth. “Just  _stop_. None of this matters, do you understand that? Look around you!”

 

His six tails splayed out in a half circle, denoting the entire town and all its echoes. “We need to find this woman’s father—” he indicated Joan Pavelski with a tilt of his head “—and we need to do it before Bluffstad goes to hell! Do you know what happens when you take a town’s whole history and fold it in on itself?”

 

The ghost sniffed. “How should we know?”

 

“Do you want to find out?” Mystery growled. He leaped off the step and landed near the trio. “So figure your problems out  _later_. Right now, we all still need the Mystery Skulls.”

 

“Great idea.” Vivi rolled her eyes. “Sure, let’s just search the town! And then the next one, and the next one after that. That shouldn’t take more than a couple  _infinities_  if we really hustle, right?”

 

“No,” Mystery said. “We can search from here.”

 

“How do you mean?” Arthur asked.

 

“Hear what I hear,” Mystery said. “See what I see.”

 

Three of Mystery’s six tails darted forward, and each one wrapped around one of their heads before any of them could react. Vivi gasped as one of the tails covered her eyes and ears, and for a moment she saw and heard nothing.

 

The moment passed, and Vivi saw and heard  _everything._

 

She still felt Mystery’s tail on her face, but it had gone transparent. Through it she saw every echo of Bluffstad Plains—and she saw  _every detail._  She heard  _every_ _sound_ , made by everyone at every point in the town’s history.

 

Looking up at one of the more recent echoes, she saw herself walking Mystery. She focused, and it was like zooming in: she could see individual strands of her own hair, individual threads in her scarf. She watched as individual blades of grass bent under her past self’s feet, how the light refracted through their dewdrops. She felt like she could see the  _atoms_  if she looked much harder.

 

Her ears—or, more precisely, Mystery’s powers—filtered away the cacophony of voices as she focused her eyes on her past self. She could hear her own grass-muffled footfalls, and Mystery’s barks, from an echo that had to be miles—and days—away.

 

“Okay,” she muttered, zooming back out to see the whole town, “this is pretty cool. I’ll give you that.”

 

“It’s incredible,” the ghost said. “What are we looking for?”

 

“Um, Mayor Hyrum,” Arthur replied, his jaw slack. “You remember what he looks like, Lewis?”

 

“Of  _course_  I do!”

 

“Shut up,” Vivi said, and the ghost did. “Remember, if he’s in an echo, he’ll look out of place. No one should be reacting to him. Let’s make this quick.” The three of them, and presumably Mystery behind, looked out and up.

 

With this new sight, and this new hearing, Vivi could check individual towns within seconds. Mayor Hyrum wasn’t in the current town, and he wasn’t in the first echo, or the second….

 

She kept looking as the others beside her did likewise, though she couldn’t help but notice that the ghost kept looking her way. That seemed likely to slow a person down, so she didn’t glance back: she wanted this over and done with. The fiftieth echo, the sixtieth echo, the seventieth: rooftops and rooftops, streets and streets, scanned and moved on from in fractions of a second—

 

“ _We’re up all night to get_ _lucky—_ ”

 

Was that  _Arthur?_  More to the point, was that Arthur  _singing?_  She glanced at the one beside her, but his lips weren’t moving—and in glancing at him, she’d lost track of the song. She focused again. Fiftieth, sixtieth, seventieth….

 

“ _We’re up all night to get lucky—we’re up all night to get lucky—_ ”

 

She saw a hot summer night, so well moonlit as to hardly be dark. It was her own house from what had to be more than a year ago, and with the angle of the echo in question, she had a bird’s eye view of the roof.

  
“ _We’re up all night to get lucky—we’re up all night to get lucky—”_

 

The screen door opened, and an orange mane emerged from the house. She recognized its owner as past-Arthur, sporting not only a pair of garish white shutter shades—she had to giggle at that—but also a keytar and vocoder, held in his hands and mouth respectively. She knew he could play the keytar, but he hardly ever let her hear it, and he didn’t exactly hold public recitals either.

 

But there he was: singing, playing, and sashaying away like he wouldn’t have cared if the eyes of the world were on him. “ _We’re up all night to get lucky—_ ” he intoned. “ _We’re up all night to get lucky—_ ”

 

The screen door was still open, and past Vivi stepped out. In her hands was—present-Vivi’s mouth opened into an astonished “o”—a  _guitar_. “I played the  _guitar?_ ” she said, laughing a bit in disbelief—and it seemed to be the case, for past-Vivi was strumming it like she had a clue what she was doing.

 

And then one last person came through the door, with a violin at his neck. He was a huge man, with a magnificent purple pompadour covering his head, and an ascot and waistcoat to match. He and past-Vivi were singing together, but present-Vivi had no idea who—

 

 _Oh._  She glanced at the ghost, who was still looking at her. When she returned her attention to the past, his gaze followed hers. “Arthur, look,” she said, since it didn’t seem fair to leave him out, and the three of them watched their past selves play on.

 

“ _We’ve…._ ”

 

“ _We’re up all night to get lucky—_ ”

 

“ _Come too far…._ ”

 

“ _We’re up all night to get lucky—_ ”

 

“ _To give up…_ ”

 

“ _We’re up all night to get lucky—_ ”

 

“ _Who we are…_ ”

 

“ _We’re up all night to get lucky—_ ”

 

Past-Arthur stood off to one side, singing with an energy she’d rarely seen in a year, but her attention was focused most on past-Vivi. On the way she looked up at the man before her, and him down at her—like they saw something more clear, more beautiful, than any magic could show them. She could never remember looking at  _anyone_  like that, not in her whole life. She could hardly even imagine doing it.

 

But then again, she couldn’t remember a lot of things.

 

“ _So let’s…_ ”

 

“ _We’re up all night to get lucky—_ ”

 

“ _Raise the bar…_ ”

 

“ _We’re up all night to get lucky—_ ”

 

“ _And our cups…_ ”

 

“ _We’re up all night to get lucky—_ ”

 

“ _To the stars!_ ”

 

“ _We’re up all night to get lucky—_ ”

 

Vivi realized she wasn’t angry anymore, and tried to call on some more reserves of her temper, but there was nothing to call: the fire was out, the fuel had been pulled away. Past-her just looked so…  _content_  up there, like she could have spent eternity in that moment—and present-Vivi would have been glad to watch.

 

The song ended, and past-Vivi laughed and grabbed the man in a hug. “Get down here, you giant,” she said, and he obliged, letting her kiss him on the lips. “Oh, Lewis… I don’t think I’m ever gonna stop loving you.”

 

Present-Vivi glanced over at the ghost—at  _Lewis_ —standing to her right. He was leaning forward, his eye sockets closed, and his arms were held in front of him. It took her a moment to realize he was mimicking the pose of that hug, of that kiss, from a year gone by.

 

 _Oh, wh_ _y the hell not_ _._  She sidled toward Lewis and patted him on the back, feeling the bones beneath his suit. “I really did care about you, didn’t I,” she said with a smile. His sockets opened, and he caught her gaze, and….

 

She didn’t think she could spend eternity looking into those empty holes—though, in fact, he looked away first. But maybe, just maybe, there was someone in there worth caring about.

 

“I’m sorry,” said Arthur.

 

Vivi glanced at him, but once more his lips were sealed. His gaze remained on the night they’d sang, and Vivi glanced up to see the three of them together in a group hug, with Mystery watching happily from the front step. If that wasn’t where the sound was coming from….

 

“It wasn’t me,” Arthur’s voice continued, and with these words she was able to pinpoint its source: a version of Bluffstad which lay only two echoes away. It was the previous night, after Vivi had gone to bed, just before the real craziness had started. Past-Arthur sat on the hood of their van, staring down at his feet, with eyes that looked almost as empty as Lewis’s. “It was something in the cave,” past-Arthur mumbled, “something that possessed me, it wasn’t….” He cleared his throat. “Oh, who cares.”

 

He looked almost straight ahead, and—though he could not have known—almost directly at Lewis. And Lewis, as Vivi noticed, had his eyes on past-Arthur. “It was my arm either way,” that Arthur said, “and you’re dead either way. That’ll make two of us, soon.”

 

He didn’t sound  _scared_  about it. Lewis averted his gaze, as past-Arthur kept looking in this serendipitous direction. “I’m so tired, Lewis,” he said, and with Mystery’s tail aiding her vision, Vivi saw the bags under his eyes in horrible detail. They were  _huge_ , like he’d been punched twice in the face. “I’m so tired of the white lies. I’m so tired of pretending Mystery’s just a dog and I’m just a dude who lost his arm, who doesn’t have nightmares about waking up and finding his skin turning green and his eyes turning black. I’m so tired of pretending to that Vivi really should be this happy.”

 

Vivi looked over at the Arthur standing beside her, and the bags under his eyes looked just as huge as the ones of last night. “I thought I could keep it up for us, but it’s been a year, and… and I’m just so tired,” past-Arthur finished.

 

With increasing urgency, Vivi scanned echo after echo from the past year, finding Arthur in each one—and in each one, he looked exhausted, more so whenever she wasn’t there with him. She had never noticed, and she’d had the audacity, just now, to act as if his stupid decision had only cost  _her_.

 

“I missed you, y’know?” past-Arthur said. He wasn’t looking at Lewis anymore, but there was no doubt of whom he was speaking to. “And it looks like now you’re back, and you’re gonna make everything better for all of us. Maybe you can even make Vivi remember. So….”

 

He slid off the hood of the van and turned away. “Come and get me, big guy. Thanks for listening, and, um… see you soon.” He walked back through his front door, and then all was still.

 

Lewis’s hand was reaching out to the Arthur of the present. “You still think of me as your…” he said, before stopping himself and dropping his arm.

 

Arthur looked up at him and shrugged. “I mean, you probably don’t feel the same way, but… yeah.”

 

“ _Hijo de puta,_  Arthur,” Lewis muttered, shaking his head. “Maybe it really wasn’t….”

 

“I see him!”

 

The three of them and Mystery turned around to see Joan Pavelski, who’d taken one of Mystery’s tails in both hands and wrapped it around her face. Vivi blushed: in all the excitement, she’d practically forgotten the woman was there. “He’s up there!” she exclaimed, pointing a finger nearly vertically. Vivi followed its path and saw Mayor Hyrum standing at the top of the halo of towns, looking around and beaming with pride. “How on Earth did he get up there already?” Joan asked.

 

“We’re not  _on_  Earth,” Mystery said, “and he’s not very earthly himself. Look!”

 

For Hyrum had just taken a step forward and disappeared—only to reappear in the same location, one town over, without breaking stride. “He doesn’t even know he’s doing it,” Mystery muttered. “We can outpace him, but we need to hurry. Where’s the van?” he asked, turning to Arthur.

 

“Uh, still in front of my house.”

 

“Then let’s not waste time.”

 

Mystery pulled his tails away from the four of them, and Vivi’s vision and hearing popped back to normal. Everything looked so  _mediocre_  without that incredible clarity, but she supposed there were bigger problems. Then she heard what sounded like little more than a rush of air, followed by four padded footfalls, and when she looked down she saw that Mystery had shrunk to a dog once more. “What?” he said in a voice that did not match his small doggy body, as she stared down at him with wide eyes. “How do you expect me to fit in the van otherwise?”

 

Vivi resisted the urge to point out how incongruously adorable he looked. “All right,” she said, planting her hands on her hips. “Mystery Skulls, move out!” She marched forward at a quick pace, and Lewis, Joan and Mystery followed suit, though Mystery had to make many times more footfalls to keep up, while Lewis didn’t need any.

 

But Arthur wasn’t following. She looked back to see him standing in the same place, holding his metal arm. “Come on,” she said, waving him forward.

 

“You said I was out of the Mystery Skulls,” he said, looking down at his feet. “And that you’d sooner hold auditions at a prison than let me back on.”

 

 _Damnit._  She sighed and returned to him, grasping his hands in hers. “Look,” she said. “Don’t think we’re square yet, because we’re not. And don’t ever keep something that huge from me again; I don’t care how good of a reason you’ve got.” His gaze bored deeper into his shoes. “That said…” she finished, “you’re coming with us.”

 

“So, I passed the audition?” he said. It was almost, dare she say it, snarky.

 

“Well, I’m a terrible driver, they don’t give licenses to kitsunes, and I’m pretty sure dead people get theirs revoked. So yeah, we need you.”

 

“I bet Joan could drive—”

 

Vivi wasn’t having any of that. She yanked his hands forward, and by extension the rest of his body, forcing him to walk with her.

 

* * *

 

The streets were deserted save for the five of them, which was probably a good thing: Lewis was still gliding along the road instead of walking, not to mention the fact of his flaming, floating skull. It also meant there were no obstacles between them and Arthur’s house, so they reached the van in a brisk few minutes.

 

Arthur stepped into the driver’s seat, and Vivi and Mystery took the other two front spots: Lewis and Joan got the back. Joan was trying to stay as far away from the ghost as possible, but considering his size, this was a fool’s errand. Lewis, for his part, kept his eye sockets fixed on the back of Arthur’s head as the latter started the car.

 

“ _—I repeat, stay inside your homes. The hikers have started talking_ _about what they saw over the hills_ _, and what they’re saying isn’t good. This is an emergency situation. For your own safety, I repeat_ —”

 

“Heh, safety,” Vivi said, plugging her phone into the sound system and automatically turning the radio, and current mayor Johnston’s warning, off. “Well, buckle up and settle in, everyone. Mayor Hyrum’s pretty far away, so this is gonna take a  _while_.”

 

“Not exactly,” Mystery said, smirking in a way that dogs weren’t supposed to be able to do. “Arthur, head over to Main Street.”

 

Arthur did so as Vivi swiped through her music collection.  _So that’s why I have all this Daft Punk,_  she mused, but today she was in the mood for something a bit more classic.

 

“ _Jojo was a man who thought he was a loner,_

 _but he knew it couldn’t last…._ ”

 

They were on Main Street, which ran clean through Bluffstad from one end to the other. So straight was it that its end linked up perfectly with its echo’s start, so they wouldn’t have to slow down to make any turns on the way up. None of this, however, dealt with one essential flaw in the plan of outpacing Mayor Hyrum: they were in a van.

 

“ _Jojo left his home in Tuscon, Arizona_

 _for some California grass._ ”

 

So why was Mystery grinning? “I’d tell you to hold on tight, but I’m not sure it would help,” he said, as Arthur put his foot down and the van hit its top speed of about sixty miles an hour. As the engine whined, houses flew past them on either side, but Vivi wasn’t feeling any need to grab onto anything.

 

“ _Get back! Get back! Get back to where you once belonged._

 _Get back! Get back! Get back to where you once belonged—get back, Jojo!_ ”

 

Then Mystery pressed his paw against the van’s dashboard, and the contact point glowed red. Then, so did the accelerator. Then, Vivi felt herself slam into the seatback like an astronaut at liftoff, and the houses on either side turned into blurs. She glanced over at the speedometer and saw the needle complete a full revolution of the scale and keep going.

 

“Mystery, oh  _my GOD!_ ” Arthur screamed, both hands holding onto the wheel for dear life. Mystery just kept smiling, his paw fixed to the dashboard as they flew through day after night after day after night, scaling the halo.

 

_"Get back—get back—back to where you once belonged…._

_Get back, Jo_ _’_ _!_ ”


	7. Welcome to Echostad—Make the Change

One hundred and fifty miles per hour—one hundred sixty—one hundred seventy—

 

“ _Woohoo!_ ” Vivi threw her hands up in the air and let the acceleration glue her to the seat. “My God,  _it’s full of stars!_ ”

 

“ _NOT HELPING!_ ” Arthur screamed, both hands clamped onto the steering wheel like his life depended on it—and frankly, it did, as did the lives of almost everyone else present. “ _Mystery, SLOW DOWN!_ ”

 

One hundred eighty—one hundred ninety—two hundred—

 

“Not until we catch him!” Mystery replied. His paw had not moved from the dashboard, and whatever energy he was sending through it impelled the van to greater and greater speeds. Each small bump in Main Street was magnified a hundredfold, the van was shaking fit to fall apart, and the engine’s whine was getting so loud Arthur thought his eardrums might burst at any moment.

 

Figures appeared and disappeared in front of the windshield, faster than the eye could process. Cars, bikes, pedestrians, animals: by the time Arthur had registered their appearance, the van had blown through them like they were nothing more than haze.

 

“Why aren’t we hitting anything?” Lewis asked, his voice vibrating with the van.

 

Two hundred ten—two hundred twenty—two hundred thirty—

 

“Nothing’s real!” Mystery replied. “It’s all phantoms of what once was. What, did you think you could change the—”

 

There was a wet  _splat_. The windshield went solid blue-green, and so did the front windows. They were blind. “Brakes! Hold on!” Arthur yelled, pulling his foot off the gas and putting it on the brakes.

 

The tires squealed, and the deceleration hit them all at once. Arthur’s prosthetic nearly buckled with the strain of keeping himself from smashing into the wheel, while his right arm grabbed Mystery to keep him inside the car.

 

Sixty—forty—twenty—zero.

 

They all sat there, panting. Arthur looked to his right to see Vivi with two massive arms wrapped around her, then followed the arms to their owner and saw Lewis reaching around the seat front, giving Vivi a hug of safety. She looked down at the gloved hands on her front, then up at the skull floating behind her, and gave Lewis a thumbs up. “Oh, thank goodness,” he sighed.

 

“Did none of you put on seatbelts?”

 

This was Joan. She and she alone had buckled up, and the seatbelt had acquitted her well. “Not to sound like your mother,” she said, “but you kids could have gotten yourselves killed! Er, most of you,” she amended, glancing at Lewis.

 

“What did we hit?” Vivi asked, leaning forward and squinting at the green fluid covering the windshield. Arthur turned on the wipers, clearing a window of visibility—and revealing a fluid-spattered, hairy leg on the hood of the van. It was like a tarantula’s leg, but longer than Arthur was tall. Vivi leaned back. “Ooooh… okay,  _what_  is that?”

 

“Open the door, Vivi,” Mystery said, “and maybe we’ll see.” She did so and stepped out, and Mystery followed her. Arthur stepped out out on his side.

 

They’d ended up near a boundary between day and night: day on their side, with night no more than ten feet away. Arthur’s eyes were drawn to a phantom pedestrian walking casually along the sidewalk and past the edge of town, seeing him disappear at the boundary layer. It was almost more attention-grabbing than the dismembered limb on his van’s hood, and all the fluid….

 

_Oh._  The fluid was blood. Arthur flinched away.

 

“What  _is_  that?” Vivi asked again, prodding the leg with her finger. “Some sort of giant spider thing?”

 

“Well,” Mystery said, “whatever we just pulped, it hunts in packs.” He was looking back the direction they came, and Arthur looked too.

 

Several hundred meters away, a patch of road was covered in green blood, like a paint bomb had been set off: that had to be where they’d struck the creature. A hundred meters in front of the impact site were seven of its fellows—six legged monsters with no recognizable eyes, each almost as large as Mystery’s full form—and they were approaching fast.

 

“What are  _those?_ ” Joan yelped.

 

“They don’t exist,” Mystery said.

 

“They  _really_  do!” Arthur flapped at his driver-side window, still splattered with green blood.

 

“Not in this reality. Not until now.” Mystery glanced up at the hills. “Jones’s message, over the radio. Something awful over the hills, and I think we know what it is: a different dimension.”

 

“Oh, good!” As always, Arthur’s hand went through his hair. “So we can take a short hike to the hell dimension. Great to know!”

 

“It’s not hell, it’s Earth. A different Earth.” Mystery glared up at him. “We’re standing in the past right now. It used to be a dimension of time, but now it’s a dimension of space. What happens when you go perpendicular to the flow of time?”

 

The spiderbugs’ approach had not slowed. Arthur still couldn’t see eyes, but he did see mouths. More than one per monster, in fact.

 

“Oh!” Vivi clapped a hand to her forehead. “So those are alternate Earths. Alternate Bluffstads.”

 

“Maybe not.” Mystery started to stretch out. “Because I don’t think Bluffstad ever existed in the reality those things came from. I don’t think humans ever existed.” His fangs were lengthening again, and his tails manifesting one by one.

 

“This thing keeps getting weirder.” Vivi grimaced and looked up at the hills, then down at the approaching creatures. “Why couldn’t we have gotten  _nice_  neighbors? I mean, you’d think we’d get a parallel universe where there’s alternate versions of us. Maybe we’d have evil beards.” She sighed. “Maybe we could be  _less_  screwed up.”

 

“Vivi!” Arthur yelled. “I appreciate how we’re philosophizing about the monsters, but can we skip ahead to the part where we’re  _running_ —” he slapped the side of the van “—from the monsters?” A moment later, he realized he’d slapped a patch of green blood. It was all over his hand.

 

_O_ _ut_ _._  He kicked out with his heels, trying to escape from his own hand—not his own hand—something  _else’s_  green hand—he fell hard on his back, knocking the wind out of himself, but he didn’t care.  _Get it o_ _ut of me_ _,_ _get it out of me, get it_ out  _of me._ He dragged his hand along the tarmac over and over, rubbing it raw, feeling his own mercifully  _red_  blood come out—

 

“Don’t be stupid,” Mystery said, as if from the other side of a storm; frantic white noise seemed to obscure his voice. “If you think I can’t take them, Arthur—Arthur? Arthur,  _stop_!”

 

Arthur scraped and scraped and scraped, until a pair of jaws snapped shut around his wrist. He looked up and saw the huge beast towering over him, and he  _screamed._

 

“ _Arthur!_ ” Vivi said, running toward him. “What in the—”

 

“They’re  _coming!_ ” Joan yelled, backing away from the road.

 

Arthur dragged his eyes away from his arm and the hellhound to see further horrors: the spiderbugs were converging on them, close enough that he could hear chittering footsteps. He could see fangs coming from their dual mouths, and red venom dripping from the fangs.

 

Mystery growled and bent his knees, but in front of the monsters was Lewis. His right hand held an orb of pink flame, glowing like a tiny sun, and that hand was held outstretched toward the creatures—just like it had been toward Arthur, not an hour before.

 

He spoke one word, and it echoed. “ _Burn._ ”

 

The creatures were twenty feet away when he fired. Arthur closed his eyes just as a wash of blinding pink light surrounded him, but he couldn’t shield his ears from the  _krakoom_  of the explosion. When he looked up several seconds later, he could only just see, and not hear at all. Lewis appeared as a black silhouette; all else was white.

 

Some time later, he became aware of Mystery tugging on his wrist. “Now,” the beast said with a muffled voice, as Arthur’s wrist was in his mouth. He spat it out and continued, “I realize I could have done that more gracefully, but we didn’t need you losing two hands. Come on, get up.”

 

Arthur was surprised he could hear the beast at all. He nodded, but kept shivering and did not stand. Mystery grunted and grabbed him by the vest, pulling him to his feet. “It’s icky goo, not possession. Get a grip, you sad sack.”

 

As Arthur yanked his mind back to the task at hand, and as his vision and hearing returned, he saw more details of Lewis than just a silhouette. Next to him was Joan Pavelski, hands still over her ears, and in front of him was not a pretty sight. Two of the creatures were running  _away_  from them: the other five were just… gone. Lewis’s explosion hadn’t even left any bloodstains, just scorch marks. Arthur shivered again.

 

Vivi beamed up at Lewis and clapped him on the back. He flinched, losing all of his menace in a moment, and looked down at her. “I can just tell,” she said, with a voice Arthur could only just hear, “you’re going to be a valuable addition to the team!”

 

“Th—thanks,” Lewis croaked. His hands spasmed, as if he was about to reach up and pull her hand off his back. It only took Arthur a moment to figure out why.

 

_Poor guy._  Arthur sighed and rubbed his hand on his vest.  _We’re never going to be okay, are we?_ _We’re just going to keep pretending. Nothing changes._

 

“Shush, you,” Mystery said.

 

Arthur’s mouth opened, but there was a delay on words coming out as his brain processed what Mystery had said. “I wasn’t talking.”

 

“And now you are. So shush, you.” Mystery cocked his ear. “Does anyone else hear that?”

 

Arthur listened, but he didn’t hear anything: not until Joan Pavelski muttered one word. “Dad,” she said, and took off as fast as her legs would take her.

 

“How did she—” Mystery scratched his head. “I barely heard that.”

 

“Never mind,” Vivi said, pointing at Joan’s back as she ran. “Let’s go, Mystery Skulls!” Off they went, running—or gliding, in Lewis’s case—after their client. It almost felt like old times, if Arthur pretended really hard.

 

Joan crossed the boundary into night and promptly ran down a side street. As Arthur followed her, it wasn’t long before he heard what she was running toward: Polish-accented singing.

 

“ _Send me a postcard, drop me a line, stating point of view—_ ”

 

The Mystery Skulls rounded the corner and saw Mayor Hyrum half-dancing down the street in front of them, hands held behind his head as if he were reclining in a beach chair. “ _Indicate precisely what you mean to say,_ ” he sang, kicking his heels against the ground on the beat. “ _Yours sincerely, wasting away!_ ”

 

“ _Dad!_ ” Joan shouted without slowing down.

 

Before Mayor Hyrum turned around completely, Joan grabbed him in a forceful hug, almost a tackle. “Joan!” he exclaimed, twisting in her tight grip to get his arms around her. “What a wonderful surprise!”

 

“Dad,” she repeated, her face buried in his starched shirt as if she were a little girl. “ _Dammit_ , Dad….” Her arms shook with the effort of holding him.

 

“Whoa, there,” he said, laughing as he patted her on the back. “What’s the trouble, Joan? Perhaps you can tell me about it as we walk.” He looked up from her head and saw the Mystery Skulls, who’d approached to a few feet away. “Ah!” he said, detaching himself from Joan and striding toward them. “Vivi, I see you’ve found your dog—and there’s that other fellow!” He held his hand out to Lewis to shake. “Hello, Wilson!”

 

Lewis didn’t have much in the way of facial expressions, but judging by the slight tilting of his head and the way his hands slackened at his sides, Arthur guessed he was dumbstruck. “That’s not even the same first letter,” he said.

 

“Ah, well. Interesting costume!”

 

Lewis made small choking noises. Hyrum grabbed one of his hands and shook it, then turned back to Joan, his face lighting up. “I’ve discovered something amazing about these other towns, Joan—they’re in the  _past!_  Incredible, no?”

 

“I know,” she said. “Dad, I need to—”

 

“I think that if we go back far enough, I’ll be able to find the night on which I first arrived as a young man! Ah,” he said, “I remember it as if it were yesterday.”

 

“Dad, there’s something I—”

 

“I’d hitchhiked my way here,” he continued, “not a dollar or a word of English to my name, so I clearly could not find lodgings!” He laughed again. “I believe it was this curb here—” with an open palm he indicated the gutter “—where I slept for the night, but in the morning I—”

 

“Will you just  _shut up_  for one  _second!_ ” she screamed. “I have to tell you something important, and you won’t like it, but for once, for  _once_ , can’t you just listen to me, you  _stupid_  old man!”

 

She breathed heavily, and Mayor Hyrum looked down at her with wide eyes. “Dad,” she said, “you’re….” She trailed off, took a deep breath, and tried again. “You’re… you’re d—” Her voice caught, and she smacked her head. “Why can’t I just  _say_  it! You’re….”

 

“Dead,” Arthur said. “Mayor Hyrum, you’re dead.”

 

Mayor Hyrum’s eyes narrowed. “What is that? A threat?”

 

“You died in your sleep last night,” Arthur said, looking him in the eyes. “And you’re a ghost.”

 

They kept eye contact for a few seconds more: then Hyrum forced another laugh and turned away. “Funny! Very funny joke, Arin. And I suppose  _he’s_  a ghost too?” he asked, gesturing at Lewis, who made more sputtering noises. “You should be a comedian. So, Joan,” he said, looking back down at his daughter, “what did you want to tell me?”

 

Joan didn’t answer, but she kept eye contact with him as well. By degrees the laughter bled away from Mayor Hyrum’s face. “You must be joking,” he said.

 

“Mayor Hyrum,” Vivi said, “you haven’t felt any aches or pains in your back all day, have you? You haven’t used your cane or your stair lift. And I don’t think you’ve eaten or drank anything all day, isn’t that right?”

 

He couldn’t answer that, but he did try: raising his finger and opening his mouth by a bit. “Do you know how to check your pulse?” Vivi asked, pressing her index and middle finger on her carotid.

 

“Of course I do,” he grumbled, shaking his head as he placed his fingers on his neck. “If it’ll help do away with this joke of yours….”

 

Seconds passed. Mayor Hyrum frowned, and moved his fingers slightly. “Where is it?” he said. “Why can’t I find….” He pulled his hand from his neck and pressed the palm against his chest, over the heart that would not beat. “I don’t….”

 

He pulled his hand away from his chest and held it in front of himself. Where the palm had been touching his shirt, his skin had disappeared, revealing what lay behind it: a billowing white maelstrom of clouds, contained as if within blown glass. It shone faintly with white light.

 

As his eyes remained fixed on this, the effect spread outward. The wrinkles in his hand were filled, and then vanished, leaving his palm smooth. His arm’s skin fell away, disintegrating into nothing and leaving the glass behind. He watched his other hand’s transformation, then felt his face as his skin disintegrated there too.

 

All his clothes had turned to white, and they glowed softly like his body. Only his pupils remained jet-black: all the rest of him was composed of clouds. “Look at me,” he whispered, lurching forward. “Joan, I….”

 

He reached for her and lay his hand on her shoulder, but she gasped and pulled away. “You’re c—cold,” she said, massaging her shoulder to get warmth back into it. “Like—like freezing rain.”

 

“I don’t feel it,” he murmured, clasping his hands together. “I don’t feel anything… what  _am_ I?”

 

Lewis stepped forward. “You’re a ghost, Mayor Hyrum, like Vivi said. You’ll be okay. It can be a little….” He closed his eyes for a few seconds, searching for the right word, before saying, “ _disorienting_  at first. You’ll be okay.”

 

Mayor Hyrum’s head stayed down, and he kept rubbing his hands together: then, with a sigh, he let them fall to his sides. “Well,” he said, “at least there’s no pain, yes?” He turned away and kneeled into the gutter. There was a little rainwater in there: it froze as he touched it.

 

“It’s not just that you’re a ghost, though,” Vivi said. “All this craziness today, with all these past towns? You did that by accident when you died. It was your dying wish.”

 

Hyrum forced a laugh, his hand resting on the ice. “Ridiculous.”

 

“Dying wishes are powerful things, Mayor. Take it from me. So we need you to pronto-change-o this one back, please.”

 

He stayed in the gutter a while longer, running his hand over the ice he’d created. Then he stood. “No.”

 

“ _What?_ ” Joan said.

 

Mayor Hyrum turned around, and he beamed like a politician on the campaign trail. The rest of him glowed, but his teeth  _shone_. “This great town of Bluffstad Plains, with its great history, can endure more than this. Why throw away this wonderful vista?” he asked in his booming voice, throwing his hands out and indicating the whole town with his impressive wingspan.

 

He started walking past them, taking large strides so that Vivi had to hurry to keep up. “People aren’t going to be able to work out in the real world,” she said. “Or see their families, or….”

 

“Ha! There are jobs here, families here!”

 

“We’re going to run out of  _food_.”

 

“We can grow our own. The land will provide!”

 

“What the  _land_  is  _providing_  right now,” Joan said, pushing Vivi out of the way and getting in front of her father, “is a fresh crop of  _monsters._  Come on!” She grabbed his hand and pulled, then let go a moment later from the cold, shaking her hand. “Dammit, just follow me!”

 

She ran past him, back to Main Street and the boundary between day and night, where the van was parked. “You see?” she said, pointing at the leg which still lay upon the van, and the green bloodstains all around. “See where we ran into some monsters? That’s you! That’s what you did!”

 

“And you’ve all done an admirable job driving them off!” Hyrum said, with more force in his words. He turned around and flashed another grin at the Mystery Skulls, though it hadn’t sounded like a compliment. “I’m sure that whatever happens, the good people of this town will fight back—”

 

“I bet you’ll lead the way on  _horseback_ , won’t you?” Joan walked up to him, grabbed his shirt, and spun him roughly around. “Just so they can get a good  _picture_  of you, you self-centered _jackass!_ ”

 

“Joan, control yourself!” The clouds in Hyrum’s body darkened just a shade, and his smile disappeared—but if he was starting to look stormy, it was nothing compared to her.

 

“I had a life out there! I had a career! I danced on the ice! I went to competitions, I performed, and people gave a damn! Before I put it all on hold for  _you_ , I  _was_  someone!”

 

“You  _are_  someone! You’re my daughter!”

 

“Yeah, that’s right! I’m Mayor Hyrum’s daughter, and his nurse, and his chauffeur, and his maid, and his  _prisoner!_  And now I’m going to be trapped here forever, because of  _you!_ Trapped in this stupid, horrible town!”

 

“This town,” Mayor Hyrum said, in a voice like a thunderclap, “is my  _life!_ ”

 

“You don’t  _have_  a life! That’s what being dead  _means!_  You’ve barely had a life for  _years_ , but I did! And now this town’s going to be my  _death_  because of you—why can’t you just  _GO?_ ” she screamed into his face.

 

Hyrum flinched away, and through his head Arthur saw two tiny flashes of lightning, running from his eyes like tear tracks. Then he growled, “That’s what you all want, isn’t it? ‘Thank you,  _Mayor Hyrum_ , you’ve done your bit, we don’t need you anymore! Watch from your sickbed while we undo all your work!’ I’ve done something  _monumental_ , and you order me to throw it to the wayside!”

 

He turned back to the Mystery Skulls, and lightning flashed in his eyes, but it didn’t look like tears this time. “The town stays. The  _towns_  stay. And I am staying just the same!” he yelled, and Arthur realized just how terrifying it was that he was taller than Lewis. His body was thunderstorm-dark now, though his shirt still glowed white, and from him came the sound of rushing wind.

 

“We can’t let you do that!” Vivi called out, clenching her fists. “Mayor, can’t we just  _talk_  about this?” But it seemed the time for talking was over: Lewis stepped forward, ready with fire blazing in his hands, and Mystery bared his fangs.

 

“No! No one is going  _anywhere!_  From this point on—” Lewis ran at him, and Mystery leaped “— _nothing changes!_ ” He spread his hands out wide, and thick dark fog flew out from him in all directions—

 

Arthur could not move. None of them could. Lewis and Mystery were frozen mid-step, and Vivi’s finger hung uselessly in front of her. Joan’s face was locked in an expression of rage.

 

Hyrum’s arms were still outstretched, shaking with emotion; it seemed he alone could move. His fog lay cold and damp upon them, but Arthur couldn’t shiver. He couldn’t turn his head, or move his eyes, or speak.

 

Which was why he was so surprised to hear his own voice. “So, we’re at the edge of town. Do you wanna start talking, or are we gonna have to walk all the way to Canada?”

 

Hyrum’s head swiveled around at the unexpected sound. From behind himself, Arthur heard footsteps and a sigh from a familiar voice, followed by his own voice once more. “Come on, Lewis, spit it out.” Arthur realized—he  _remembered_  this day. He remembered this conversation.

 

Arthur and Lewis entered his field of view, appearing as they had in years past. Past-Arthur still had both arms, while Past-Lewis still had a body, and he was using it to hunch away from past-Arthur as if turning from a chill.

 

“Shoo,” Mayor Hyrum said, waving his hands at the apparitions.

 

Past-Arthur sighed. “All right. I’ll stock up on provisions, eh? Food, clothing, passports, maple syrup so they accept us as two of their own—”

 

“It’s about Vivi,” Past-Lewis said.

 

Past-Arthur laughed. “What a shocker.”

 

“Yeah… the thing is….”

 

“The thing is, you like her. As in, 'like-like’ her.” Past-Arthur smirked. “As in,  _usted_ _'in lo_ _ooooo_ _ve’ de ella,_   _ba-boom ba-boom_.” He opened and closed his fist in front of his chest, like a beating heart.

 

Lewis sighed and dropped down to sit in the grass, dipping into Hyrum’s fog of memory. “How’d you know?”

 

“Because you’re obvious, man!” Arthur chuckled. “You get hearts in your eyes every time you look at her. Seriously, keep that up and they’re just gonna  _turn_  pink.” He plopped down next to Lewis. “Is this seriously what you’ve been hung up about?”

 

Lewis didn’t answer, so Arthur said, “Wanna hear a secret? She’s obvious too.”

 

It took a few seconds for Lewis to process this, but once he had, his head snapped up to look at Arthur. “You mean….”

 

“ _Ba-boom ba-boom_ , heart eyes, the whole deal. Obvious to everyone except  _you_.” Arthur tapped Lewis on the shoulder. “But trust me, she’s as oblivious as you are. And frankly, it’s kind of embarrassing having to deal with the two of you being stupid about this. Ask her out.”

 

“But—”

 

“But? You like-like her and she like-likes you. Where’s the but?” Past-Arthur stood up and walked back toward town. “Come on, ask her out!” But past-Lewis stayed huddled on the grass, and eventually Arthur looked back at him and groaned. “You’re just looking for reasons not to, aren’t you?”

 

“I thought….” Lewis shrugged. “I thought maybe, you and her—”

 

“What? No! I mean… no, no.” Arthur scratched the back of his head. “I mean, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t  _thought_  about it, but… no, we’re friends. Really good friends. The point is, don’t worry about me getting in the way or anything like that. Go on, ask her.”

 

“Vivi’s my friend too,” Lewis said, holding his legs in his arms. “I don’t know if I want that to change. If I mess this up….”

 

“Hey, it’s not the end of the world, right?”

 

As Mayor Hyrum kept watching, Arthur saw the storm clouds in his body begin to dissipate. Past-Arthur grabbed past-Lewis’s elbow and pulled up, but Lewis would not budge, or even move his head. Arthur rolled his eyes. “Okay, no. You know what? It  _is_  the end of the world.”

 

“Huh?” Lewis glanced up at him.

 

“It’s the end of the world where you and Vivi have to keep dancing around each other, and the beginning of a world where you and her get to be together. Maybe even dance  _with_  her. God knows I’d rather live in that new world, because this one’s a pain in the ass.”

 

Arthur smiled and grabbed Lewis’s other elbow, then leaned back, and Lewis let himself be pulled up. “Look, big guy,” Arthur said, “I get it. You’ve got a good thing going, and you’re scared to change it, but this can’t go on forever. So it all comes down to one question: do you love her?”

 

Lewis nodded. So did Mayor Hyrum, and he was looking at Joan. His body glowed white.

 

Past-Arthur smiled. “Then make the change.” The two of them put their arms over each others shoulders, if only barely in Arthur’s case, and walked back down Main Street.

 

And Arthur toppled to the ground. So did Vivi, and Lewis, and Mystery, and Joan, as the fog disappeared. Arthur breathed heavily, shivering with the cold.

 

“Joan!” Hyrum appeared at her side—without traveling the intervening distance—as she gasped for air. “Have I hurt you?”

 

She couldn’t get the words out to respond. He made to pick her up, then remembered his temperature and pulled his hand away. “I’m sorry, Joan,” he said. “I didn’t think.”

 

Arthur felt himself being gathered up in huge arms, and looked up to see Lewis holding him, Vivi, and Mystery. He was like a radiator, and Arthur felt himself regaining control in his limbs. “Thanks, Lewis,” he whispered.

 

“You—you teleported,” Vivi said, still shivering. She pulled herself out of Lewis’s grip and walked with shaky steps to Mayor Hyrum, helping Joan to her feet. “Just now, you teleported over to Joan. And you’ve been teleporting all day. So….”

 

“Yes?” Hyrum said.

 

“We just got in a bit of a car accident.” Vivi flopped her hand toward the van. “Can you take us back to the original?”

 

“Er, yes.” He closed his eyes and spread his arms out again. “Back to the now.”

 

Fog rushed from his body, but this time it wasn’t cold, and it fully obscured their visions. When it cleared, it seemed at first that they hadn’t moved, but Arthur turned around and saw that they were indeed in the present-day town: he could see the wall of mist glowing at its far end, obscuring the view in that direction. Hyrum had been nice enough to bring the van as well.

 

“Wow, you’re acclimating really quickly!” Vivi gave Mayor Hyrum a thumbs-up. “Nice one!”

 

Arthur usually found her enthusiasm at least a little infectious, but Hyrum didn’t seem to be catching it. He stood with his head bowed, his back shaking as if with earthly weakness. “I need to pass on now, isn’t that so?” he said. “That’s what ghosts do.”

 

“Actually, that’s a common misconception!” Vivi chuckled nervously. “Many ghosts go on to lead long and fulfilling… well, existences, anyway. But we need you to bring the town back.”

 

“All right.” Once more Mayor Hyrum spread his arms wide, and Arthur braced himself for another rush of fog—but it didn’t come. He tried again. And again.

 

“Dad?” Joan asked, lifting herself from Vivi’s support.

 

He tried one more time, then said, “I don’t know how.” His arms fell to his side. “I don’t know how to change it back.”

 

“No, it’s….” Joan pressed her fingertips against her forehead. “You did this. You can’t undo it?”

 

“I think….” He closed his eyes. “But I can see a door in my head. The proverbial light. Vivi,” he said, facing her. “If I go to the light… if I pass on, this will be undone?”

 

Her eyes widened. “You got my name right—er… maybe. Maybe it would work.” She shrugged. “But….”

 

“Dad, you don’t seriously mean….”

 

“Then,” Hyrum said, “I think it’s the only thing to do.” He stood tall and closed his eyes.

 

“Stop!” Joan yelled, walking between him and Vivi. “Dad, stop. Don’t leave—we can figure this out.”

 

“What, and trap you here? Ha.” Hyrum shook his head. “It’s better this way, Joan.”

 

“I didn’t… those things I said, I was lying. I don’t want you to go.” She was crying fully now, tears running like brooks. “You’re my dad. You shouldn’t have to go.”

 

It was difficult to tell, but Hyrum might have smiled. “I went last night, Joan, while we both slept. I’m an old man, my dear… it’s not a tragedy for me to die. It’s a miracle that I could stay for long enough to tell my daughter how much I love her, even if we don’t always see eye to eye.”

 

He spread his arms wide; in response, she ran forward and grabbed him in a hug. “None of that,” she sobbed, “ _none_  of that means I don’t love you, okay?” Her tears froze on her cheeks, and she shivered with his cold, but she held on. “Please. Wherever you go, just remember that.”

 

“I will.” Hyrum ruffled his daughter’s hair one last time. “Have a good life. Go dance on the ice. Oh, and one last thing… when it’s over, and you get where I’m going?” He grinned, revealing those blinding pearly whites again. “Tell me how the tunnel plan worked out. I think it could be really good for the town.”

 

Joan laughed, and so did Mayor Hyrum. “Godspeed, Joan,” he said, and closed his eyes.

 

Arthur heard a faint humming sound—a sad tune he couldn’t quite place—and Mayor Hyrum’s outline became less distinct, as the glass containing his essence diminished. At last it vanished, and with the faintest of sighs, his form dissipated. Joan’s arms closed around the air.

 

Arthur walked to her side and placed his arm around her shoulders again. “Are you okay?”

 

“Of course I’m not,” she said with a sniff in her voice. “But… I think I’m going to be okay, soon enough.” She stood, wiping her tears from her face. “Thank you, all of you. It’s… been a weird day, but I don’t think I’d have made it through without you.”

 

“ _De nada_ ,” Lewis said.

 

Vivi, however, had no response. As  Hyrum’s fog began to pool around their feet, she looked at the roiling wall at the end of town, then back at the echoes as they became less distinct. Then she smacked herself in the face. “Duh!”

 

“Duh, what?” Arthur asked.

 

“Uh, uh—” Vivi turned toward Joan and gave her a quick wave “—it’s our pleasure, no charge for services rendered, have a nice life,  _bye!_ ” With that she ran past them and… into the driver’s seat of the van.  _Oh, dear god._

 

“Vivi, what are you  _doing_?” Arthur dove out of the way as she started the van and floored it, sending the wheels a-squealing as she careened down the road.

 

“Sorry, no time to explain!” she called back.

 

“Vivi, this is a bad idea!” he yelled after her.

 

“ _Vivi!_ ” Lewis surged forward after the van.

 

Then Arthur’s vision was obscured by a huge mass of white fur: Mystery had grown again, and he was tensed as a sprinter waiting for the gun. “Grab on tight, Arthur!” he yelled.

 

“Oh, you’re joking,” Arthur said. Mystery growled, baring teeth. “Oh, you’re not joking.” He plunged his hands into Mystery’s mane and grabbed hard. “I just want you to know I’m _uncomfortable with this!_ ” he screamed as Mystery took off.

 

The fog was getting denser, and if anyone had looked outside their windows, they wouldn’t have been able to see too much. They might have seen a skeleton with flaming hair, tearing down the road and leaving a trail of flames in his wake like an overclocked Delorean. Perhaps they’d also have seen the great white hound running after him, and the skinny blond flapping like a flag in a gale from his back.

 

Whatever Mystery had done to the van, it didn’t seem to have worn off just yet. Vivi was going easily double the van’s usual top speed, and she didn’t have full control of the vehicle, given how it swerved down the road. This was a feat made more impressive by the fact of the road being straight.

 

Finally they drew level with the van. “Vivi!” Mystery said. “What are you doing?”

 

“Did you not figure it out?” she yelled, squeezing the wheel as if trying to choke the life out of it.

 

“Figure  _WHAT_  out?” Arthur yelled back.

 

“The past is behind us. To the left and right, that’s alternate presents. So what’s in front of us?” she asked, looking at Arthur.

 

“Eyes on the  _road,_  Vivi!”

 

“It’s the future!” She smacked her hand on the wheel for emphasis, and the van honked. “It’s _our_  future out there, and it’s disappearing! I gotta take a look!”

 

“Vivi, stop!” Mystery growled.

 

“Come on!” she yelled. “When are we ever gonna have another chance like this! I gotta know how this turns out!”

 

“Vivi, it’s disappearing! If you get stuck in there, then you’ll disappear too!” Mystery said something under his breath. “Lewis, stop the van!”

 

“Don’t you mean, 'Vivi, stop the van’?” Arthur asked, his voice corrugated by the way his body tossed in Mystery’s wake.

 

It immediately transpired, however, that Mystery had said exactly what he meant. Lewis pressed his hand against the van, and magenta sparks traveled along the van’s metal frame, through the hood, and into the engine. “No, no,  _no!_ ” Vivi yelled, pounding the dashboard as all the dials went to zero.

 

As the van screeched to a halt, Mystery slowed and stopped too, just short of the wall of mist. “Oh, thank god,” Arthur sighed, sliding from Mystery’s back like jello. “Can we just not do that? Ever?”

 

“No promises,” Mystery told him with a smirk.

 

“What the fertilizer, Lewis?” Vivi opened the door and stepped out to scold Lewis. Her legs and skirt were completely obscured by the rising fog. “I was so close!”

 

“Mystery said… I’m not losing you again,” he said.

 

She sighed. “All right. But can’t we just  _look?_  Hang on—Mystery!” she yelled, whirling around to face him. “Give us elf-eyes again! We gotta see this!”

 

“No time,” he said, peering into the white.

 

“Are you  _kidding_  me?”

 

“But I can see something.” he said, as the fog rose around his eyes. “I see the three of you. You’re together… and you’re happy.”

 

The four of them looked into the mist, and Arthur could swear for a moment that he saw four silhouettes on the other side—then it blew into them completely, and all he saw was blinding white light.

 

* * *

 

“Behind me,” said Claire Wilson, speaking into the her mic, “is the place where the town of Bluffstad Plains used to be. Hmm. Maybe….” She sniffed and tried another rehearsal.

 

She gestured to the empty plain lying between the hills behind her. “Not twenty-four hours ago, this was the location of the small town of Bluffstad Plains. However, early this morning, it—” She sneezed.

 

“Claire!” groaned Jon, her cameraman.“Stop sneezing!”

 

“I can’t help it,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I guess it’s my asthma, but what could be… triggering it?” She looked around herself and saw fog around her feet, glowing and flowing like a river. “What the hell?”

 

“Please don’t say 'hell’ when we actually get on air,” Jon said.

 

“But look at this!” she exclaimed, for the fog was now up to her knees. “Where is this—achoo!—coming from?”

 

It kept rising, and before long it obscured her vision entirely. “Tell the network we’ve got breaking news!” she declared, hoping she was looking in the right direction. “There’s something appearing in the fog!”

 

Around her, dark shapes were materializing, their outlines growing sharper and sharper. It wasn’t too long before she saw them for what they were: buildings. “It looks like Bluffstad Plains is—achoo!—coming back!” she said.

 

And as the fog started to fall away, she saw roofs and windows, and four silhouettes: three humans, and one dog. She heard a voice, faint but sharp: “Lewis, you need to look human!”

 

“What? Um….”

 

“Now!”

 

As Claire watched, the largest silhouette seemed to flicker: for a moment she could have sworn it had no neck, but as she kept looking she realized this was ridiculous.

 

The fog cleared entirely, and the three people were revealed: a slight blond man with a prosthetic arm, a blue-haired girl with clothes to match, and a handsome giant in a pink waistcoat. “Whoa,” said the girl, looking up at the big man. “You look… wow.” The dog was a white-furred little fella, and he was staring up at the big man with a smile that didn’t seem to belong on a dog’s muzzle.

 

“Excuse me!” Claire said, making for them as her cameraman followed behind. “You three?” They looked up with confusion at her, and she put on her best journalistic smile. “Claire Wilson, WMTV. Do you three live in this town?”

 

The blue-haired girl stared at her for a moment: then her cheeks puffed up in a suppressed laugh, and she turned away. “What’s so funny?” Claire asked.

 

“Sorry, sorry, nothing. Just…” She smiled again, and made a nose like steam escaping from a valve. “Yeah, we…  _live_  here.”

 

“Would you be willing to talk about your experience? What the town’s disappearance and reappearance looked like from… is something wrong with your eyes?” she asked, suddenly noticing the big one’s eyes. She hated herself for derailing like that, but unless her vision was failing her, his eyes were  _black_  where they should have been white.

 

“You know—” the blue one started to say, but then she glanced at the blond man, who looked immensely camera-shy. She shrugged. “I think the Mystery Skulls are not taking questions at this time.”

 

“We’re ready to film!” Jon called from behind her.

 

“Come on!” Claire implored. “It must have been incredible from your side. The world wants to know!” She held her microphone toward the girl.

 

The giant growled. “She  _said_ —” he grabbed the microphone with such vehemence that he seemed ready to crush it “—we aren’t taking  _questions_.” Now Claire’s eyes  _had_  to be playing tricks on her, because it looked like his hand was covered in purple sparks, feeding into the microphone.

 

“And we’re rolling—what the hell?” Jon exclaimed.

 

Claire looked round to see a flicker of purple sparks on his camera, and to watch its tiny red light go out. “It just stopped working!” he complained, still looking through the camera’s eyepiece.

 

Claire examined her own mic and saw it had stopped working as well. “What in the… hey,” she said, “giant man! Did you do….”

 

But the three humans, and their dog, had disappeared. “… this?” she finished, sighing. So much for her big break.

 

“What giant man?” Jon asked, walking up to her.

 

“What do you mean, what giant man—the one built like a truck!” She narrowed her eyes at him. “How could you miss him!”

 

“I didn’t see anything through the camera,” he said with a shrug. “Weird day, huh?”

 

She sighed again. “Yeah. At least it can’t get worse.”

 

Which, of course, was when she noticed something behind her, and turned around to see the WMTV van. Or, more accurately,  _half_  of the WMTV van. A house had appeared right where it had been parked, and its wall had cut the van in two. “Oh,  _son of a_ —”

 

* * *

 

“Eat,” Vivi said, as the group walked briskly away from the news crews. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the bag of cheese curds that she’d saved from Kapp's—only an hour previously, but it seemed like a year had passed.

 

“Thanks,” Arthur said, taking it from her hands and pulling a curd from the bag. “So what was that, Lewis?” he asked, nearly beneath his breath. Lewis looked down at him, and Arthur raised his voice a bit, but without looking up. “What you did to that camera—what was that?”

 

“Oh.” Lewis looked at his hands, at the projections of flesh that covered them, and shrugged. “I can do that, it seems. I don’t quite know how.”

 

“So  _that’s_  what you did to Miss last night!” Vivi said. “You stinker!”

 

The other two gave her confused looks. “Miss?” Arthur said. “Who’s Miss?”

 

“I’ve just decided we’re gonna call the van Miss.” She grinned; it was a brilliant plan, after all. “It says Mystery Skulls on the outside. Mystery Skulls—M. S.—Miss. All in favor?”

 

“That is entirely out of nowhere,” Arthur said, chewing on a cheese curd that muffled his voice, “and I vote against.”

 

“Team leader gets more votes than you anyway, Art. Wait, hang on!” Another, better idea struck her, and she drummed on her knees to build up the moment, then broke out in jazz hands. “The  _Scaravan!_ ”.

 

They weren’t giving her the correct, enthusiastic responses. “The  _Scaravan_ ,” she repeated, with less aggressive jazz hands.

 

“Uh…” said Lewis, the picture of a well-spoken gentleman.

 

Vivi elbowed him in where his ribs had been several minutes before. “Come on! You’re my ghost boyfriend—you’re supposed to agree with me on stuff like this!”

 

“Aheh… sure?”

 

Vivi laughed, but she had to force it, and she didn’t think she was doing a good job. Out of nowhere, Mystery’s words echoed in her mind:  _I see the three of you._  She looked over at Lewis, who walked with as much care as if he were tiptoeing, and at Arthur, who didn’t seem ready to look at Lewis yet.  _You’re together… and you’re happy._

 

With an inward sigh, she grabbed Lewis and pulled him into a sidestreet. “So it’s true, then?” she asked, with the best smile she could manage as she stared into his blackened eyes. “You’re my ghost.”

 

He was about to respond when a thought struck her, and she chuckled in spite of herself, turning away from him. “ _Interstellar_ ,” she murmured.

 

“What?” Lewis asked. “Is that… the Daft Punk movie, or….”

 

“No, it’s a movie that came out while you were… away.”

 

She looked back up at him, at this man she barely knew, and worked very hard not to cry. “You’ve got a lot of catching up to do… and I guess that makes two of us.” She stuck out her hand. “It’s  _very_ —” her voice cracked, and she tried again “—very nice to meet you, Lewis Hernandez.”

 

He didn’t take her hand right away, instead letting his own hang in front of hers about a foot away. “When Mayor Hyrum passed on, it undid his wish. And my wish is what got rid of your memories. If I—”

 

She grabbed his hand and pulled him in close. “Don’t even  _think_  about it,” she said. “I fell in love with you once, didn’t I? Who says I can’t do it again?”

 

He hesitated a moment longer, then wrapped his arm around her. He felt warm—not hot like an open flame, but like fire harnessed, controlled. Softened.

 

“But I’m still not cool with you trying to kill Arthur!” She pulled herself out of Lewis’s hug, grabbed his shoulders, and spun him toward Arthur. “Apologize!”

 

“Um….” Lewis grimaced. “Arthur, sorry for trying to—”

 

He was interrupted again as Arthur ran into him in a tackle-hug. “Jesus, Lewis,” he said into the ghost’s chest, “you know I forgive you.”

 

“I… promise I won’t do it again.” Lewis patted Arthur on the back. “I really made a mistake there. I’m sorry.”

 

“You jackass— _I’m_  sorry!” Arthur pounded on Lewis’s chest with his metal hand. “I’m sorry you’re dead! I’m sorry I couldn’t stop this from happening a year ago!” He looked ready to cry. “I’m sorry I—”

 

If there was anything Vivi did not want to see, it was Arthur crying. “Yeah, yeah, you’re  _both_ sorry!” She pushed herself in between the two of them, placed her hands on their backs, and pushed forward. “Come on, we’ve got things to do!”

 

“What things?” Lewis asked.

 

“Think about it! We’ve had to deal with two ghosts and a spacial distortion. At the current going rate we’re gonna find three werewolves and a Frankenstein’s monster by five thirty!” She looked up first at Lewis, then Arthur, a smile on her face. “And I wouldn’t want to find them with anyone else but the Mystery Skulls.”

 

* * *

 

It was amazing how much credit someone could get, just for being a magical talking quadruped.

 

In those last moments, when Mystery had peered into the fog of the future, he had seen neither jack nor squat. The mist had been too thick for even his vision. So he’d told the three of them what they wanted to hear—what they  _needed_  to hear.

 

And now, watching the trio walk off arm in arm, he sat behind them and smiled. After a year of pain, they were finally starting to see themselves as he saw them.

 

With a happy bark he chased after the Mystery Skulls, running to catch up.


	8. Interlude I: Magic

“You have a  _suit_?” Vivi asked, looking up and down Arthur’s besuited form.

 

“Yeah,” Arthur said, rubbing his concealed metal shoulder.

 

“I’ve never seen you in it! Looking  _good!_ ” She threw a double thumbs up his way. “You are just  _full_  of surprises, aren’t you?”

 

Surprises like how he’d kept Lewis’s death and Mystery’s true form secret from her for a  _year—_ but she’d promised herself that tonight, at least, she wouldn’t care about that.

 

“Well, I haven’t worn it since Lewis’s….” He flapped his hand in her direction. “ _Y_ _ou_  have a suit.”

 

“Well, it’s this or a dress, and dresses generally don’t have pockets.” Vivi twirled, letting her suit—blue, of course, from the jacket to the trousers—flare out at the vents. “Nice, right?”

 

He smiled, and she hoped he meant it. “You look great. Lewis is gonna love it.” Then he looked away from her and toward Lewis’s mansion, and its imposing front doors. She looked at it too, and sighed.

 

_Lewis._

 

By her memory, she’d first met him within the last twenty four hours, and learned his name within the last twelve. Now he’d asked them to show up dressed to the eighteens to his ghostly mansion, which he’d materialized outside of Bluffstad to minimize prying eyes. Well, technically he’d asked only  _her_ , but she’d translated his personal invitation into a group one. The point was, according to her memory, this was just another visit to a stranger’s spooky mansion—not a new experience for her by any means.

 

But she’d also learned within the last twelve hours that her memory wasn’t all she’d cracked it up to be. That she’d known, even  _loved_  this man when he was alive.

 

She raised her hand to knock, but hesitated as a chill flashed through her; after several seconds of holding up her hand, she let it drift back down. A glance at Arthur told her that he wasn’t going to knock any time soon, though, so she steeled herself to try again—

 

The doors swung open of their own accord—or, more accurately, of Lewis’s accord—and a ghostly choir sang out. “ _This spell you’ve got on me…._ ”

 

“More music!” Vivi suppressed a sigh of relief, and smiled at Arthur. “Listen,” she said, clapping him on the back, “no stress, no bull byproducts. Let’s just be happy tonight, okay?”

 

He nodded, and the two of them stepped inside. The doors slammed shut behind them, just as they had the previous night—and, just as they had the previous night, the lights went out, leaving them in pitch darkness.

 

“ _It’s like magic…._ ”

 

Then four purple candles blazed into existence at the top of the grand staircase, surrounding the portrait of the Duchess. “You’re  _here!_ ” she trilled, leaning through the frame of her portrait. “It is  _so_  good to see you so impeccably attired, Angel and… Arthur.” She pointed to her right, and Vivi’s left. “The Master is waiting in the ballroom: just follow our directions. Chop-chop!”

 

“Of  _course_  he has a ballroom,” Arthur said, as they ascended the staircase. “Of course Lewis ‘Slave to Tradition’ Hernandez has a ghostly ballroom in his ghostly mansion.”

 

“I thought we were gonna have  _fun_  tonight.”

 

“This is how I sound when I’m having fun.”

 

“Really? I guess I wouldn’t know 'cuz I never  _hear_  it, you big killjoy.” She punched his shoulder gently, and he chuckled.

 

The corridor to the left ended in a T, with the Prosecutor’s portrait at the intersection. “That way,” he said, tilting his head to his left, Vivi’s right.

 

“ _Got me feeling like I’ll never give up on…._ ”

 

“Thanks,” Vivi said, not sparing the portrait a glance: she was looking everywhere as she walked, at every piece of carpet and wall and ceiling she could, trying to gauge their dimensions. Now that she wasn’t running through it in a controlled panic, she could appreciate just how  _little_  the inside of the house matched up with the outside, or even with other parts of the inside. It was like a much spookier TARDIS.

 

“ _Got me feeling like I’ll never give up on you…._ ”

 

“Up these stairs, please,” the Minister said as the pair of them came to another staircase. As the two of them kept walking, a steady musical beat made its way into the edges of Vivi’s hearing. She wasn’t sure what it sounded like, but it wasn’t classical. And those voices just kept coming, more and more frequently.

 

“ _It’s like magic._ _…_ ”

 

“Do you know where Mystery is?” Arthur asked.

 

“Probably napping. Why do you—” Vivi stopped herself, realizing that she was still thinking of Mystery as a dog. This was one mental shift that would take a long time. “I guess he doesn’t have a tux.”

 

“They don’t make them in his size,” Arthur said. “ _Either_  of his sizes.” Vivi’s laugh was probably louder than the joke actually justified, but what the hell, right? They were having  _fun_ tonight.

 

“ _Got_ _you_ _feeling like_ _you’re_ _falling in love…._ ”

 

The last portrait was of the Luchador, still masked but in a tuxedo instead of bare-chested, and with a rose held in his teeth. “Welcome,  _mi amor_ ,” he said, bowing so deeply to Vivi that he almost disappeared under the bottom of the frame. Judging by the sudden warmth in her cheeks and the embarrassed smile she couldn’t help, that was definitely a blush on Vivi’s cheeks. All sorts of new things were happening today.

 

“One last door to pass through, Angel, before you arrive in  _paradise_.” The Luchador pointed at the ornate set of double doors at the end of the hallway, decorated with gilded spirals and silver filigree. The Knight stood in front of the doors; it reached out and opened them as Vivi and Arthur approached, revealing… a completely dark room.

 

“ _Got_ _you_ _feeling_ _like_ _you’ll_ _never give up on…._ ”

 

They walked through the door, and before Vivi could make out any details of the room, the door slammed behind them and the music stopped. Once more, everything was black and nearly silent, but she could have  _sworn_  she heard something creeping up behind her—

 

“ _Got_ _you_ _feeling like_ _you’ll_ _never give up on—!_ ”

 

A huge hand grabbed Vivi’s back and dipped her to a full horizontal. All around them, the room blazed with sudden light.“Whoa!” she exclaimed, with Lewis’s black eyes inches from her own. “Hi there!”

 

“You look…” Lewis glanced down the length of her body, then his gaze returned to lock with hers. “Beautiful.”

 

She laughed, eyeing his costume as well. He was in his black suit from before, but with no ribs poking out at the sides. “Right back at ya,” she said. He laughed gently back at her, and lifted her to her feet.

 

“Hey, Lewis,” Arthur said with a weak wave. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

 

It  _was_  a nice place, Vivi had to agree: a massive ballroom with a massive vaulted ceiling, hung with chandeliers alight with violet flame. Unlike the rest of the mansion, it did not not simulate any sort of disrepair: its floor shone as if freshly waxed, and its walls were free of tears and blemishes. It was perfect.

 

A pink ghost hovered at each corner of the room, each with a yellow heart on its front. Vivi pointed. “What are those things, anyway?”

 

“They’re….” Lewis scratched his head. “I’m not certain, but they come with the mansion. I call them Deadbeats.”

 

“So you control them?” Vivi walked over to one of them and let it rub its head against her hand; she scratched it, and it purred like a cat.

 

Lewis snorted. “I told you, they’re Deadbeats. I can’t make them do anything… well, except sing.”

 

“Oh, like that lame 'Silent Knight’ from earlier?” Vivi laughed. “ _So_  cheesy.”

 

“It was supposed to be menacing,” Lewis mumbled.

 

“It was  _laaaaaame._ ” She grabbed his hands and pulled him to the center of the dance floor. “So, wanna make 'em sing again?”

 

His face broke out in a huge smile, and he grabbed her shoulder with one hand and her hand with the other. “ _Hit it!_ ” he yelled.

 

“ _It’s like magic!_ ”

 

And then  _okay_ , they were dancing. At least, Lewis was certainly dancing, and he seemed to know what he was doing; Vivi didn’t have a clue. She stared down at his feet and tried to copy his moves. Step-and-step-and-step-and-step-step—

 

“ _Got me feeling like I’m falling in love!_ ”

 

She realized that, just as his hand was on her shoulder, hers ought to be on his. Her hand flailed for a second before finding its target—she couldn’t spare a glance up.

 

“ _Got me feeling like I’ll never give up on—got me feeling like I’ll never give up on you!_ ”  
  


Side, back, forward, side-side-side, forward, back, side-side-side—her muscles were learning the moves, bit by bit.

 

“ _Got you feeling like you’re falling in love!_ ”

 

“I’m getting the hang of it!” she said, daring to look up at his face. “What’s this dance called?”

 

“ _Got you feeling like you’ll never give up on—_ ”

 

“Cha cha!” Lewis beamed down at her, his eyes closed with happiness. “And this one—”

 

“ _Got you feeling like you’ll never give up on!_ ”

 

“—is called the foxtrot.”

 

“ _Magic, magic! Magic, magic! Magic, magic, magic, magic!_ ”

 

Oh, Mithra,  _why._  Just as she’d been getting used to the dance, Lewis transitioned into a new step as the verses changed, and Vivi was caught entirely off guard. If not for the way he was supporting her entire body weight, she’d have fallen flat on her face and dragged him down too. Back her gaze went, down to study his feet and try to match them.

 

“ _Magic, magic! Magic, magic! Magic, magic, magic, magic!_ ”

 

It was close to a lost cause; she might as well have just lifted her legs and let him carry her. Before she could learn the step, he pulled her hand up and spun her around, then pulled away as she fought for her balance. When she had her bearings again, she watched him hold his hand in the air; a Deadbeat flew to his hand from the corner of the room and transformed into a microphone, which Lewis put to his lips.

 

“ _It’s not the way you hold your hair, like you just crept out of bed… oh no!_ ”

 

Vivi wasn’t quite sure what to do all on her own: take a breather? Sway her hips a bit, or maybe head bob? Just stand there and…  _appreciate_  Lewis, with his Mr. Incredible upper body and his face crying out for a marble bust—

 

“ _It’s not the way you move your eyes, though it took me by surprise… oh no!_ ”

 

With a blush fit to light a bonfire, Vivi glanced around and saw Arthur absently nodding his head near the door. “Come on, Art!” she called, waving at him. “The dance floor’s big enough for three!”

 

“ _Before this night is over—_ ” Lewis grabbed her hand and pulled her in so that they were standing back to back, with his back rubbing against hers to the beat. “ _I’ll pull your body closer!_ ”

 

Vivi threw an apologetic smile Arthur’s way.

 

“ _I wanna give it to you!_ ” Lewis leaned into Vivi, and then pulled away so that she was leaning into him. “ _I wanna get back! Before this night is over—_ ”

 

“ _I’ll pull your body closer!_ ” Vivi sang, joining in, swaying her body opposite to his. He grinned down at her, his eyes still closed, then spun around and spun  _her_  around as they got back to the chorus.

 

“ _This spell you’ve got on me!_ ”

 

“ _It’s like_ _magic!_ ” she sang, though perhaps she shouldn’t have; they were dancing again, and she needed all the concentration she could muster for the steps. She stumbled again, but Lewis held her up without even noticing she’d fallen; his eyes were  _still_  closed.

 

“ _Got me feeling like I’m falling in love!_ ”

 

This was the same step as before—she could do this!

 

“ _Got me feeling like I’ll never give up on—got me feeling like I’ll never give up on you!_ ”

 

Feeling confident, she joined in once more for the lyric, “ _It’s like magic!_ ” Step-and-step-and-step-and-step-step—this was more than doable, this was fun!

 

“ _Got you feeling like you’re falling in love!_ ”

 

And by Jupiter, it  _did_  feel that way.

 

“ _Got you feeling like you’ll never give up on—got you feeling like you’ll never give up on—!_ ”

 

They froze for a moment, and Vivi laughed, just before the second part of the chorus started up again. This time, she was ready for the foxtrot.

 

“ _Magic, magic! Magic, magic! Magic, magic, magic, magic!_ ”

 

And that was how it went; the dance changed a few more times, and Vivi was equal to it each time… give or take a few seconds to get used to the new moves. He got closer to her as the song progressed—she didn’t know the proximity guidelines, but it seemed pretty close for two people on their first date.

 

Many minutes later, the song ended, and Lewis dipped Vivi once more. She looked up at his beautiful face, at his contented closed eyes, and laughed. He laughed right back. “So, Vivi,” he said, “is it everything you’d ever hoped for and more?”

 

“More,  _definitely_  more!”

 

“And I’ve been asking you to dance with me for so long.” He gently pulled her back to her feet. “Glad you finally listened, eh?”

 

“Absolutely.” She held his hands in hers, shaking her head. “Oh, Lewis… is  _this_  what I’ve forgotten?”

 

The spell was broken. His hands slipped from her grasp. His eyes shot open in all their inky blackness, and all at once she realized why he’d been keeping them closed. “Sorry,” she said, as he averted his gaze.

 

“It’s….” He covered his face with his hand, and behind it she could have sworn she saw a flicker of pink fire.

 

A collection of dull slapping noises hit their ears, and the two of them looked around to see Arthur with a big smile on his face, standing up straight and clapping. It didn’t quite sound right, the sound of skin against metal instead of against more skin; perhaps this was part of why he slowed to a halt before very long. “Um,” he said, clasping his hands, “good job, guys.”

 

“Thanks,” Vivi said, as Lewis looked away. She turned back to him and asked, “Do you want to dance some more?”

 

“I’d like that,” he said, quietly.

 

* * *

 

His two best friends started dancing again to more music, and Arthur leaned against the wall once more with a sigh of contentment. Somehow, it had all turned out okay.

 

_It sure did._ _They don’t need you to_ _be there for her anymore—Lewis can handle it._ _You can rest now._

 

Arthur slid down the wall, huddling his knees against himself. “I did it,” he mumbled to himself. “We’re okay now.” He felt so tired all of a sudden—or maybe he felt as tired as he always did, except now he didn’t need to fight it off. In any case, the wall at his back certainly felt comfortable.

 

_That’s right. You did a great job._

 

His eyelids drooped and closed.  _Rest easy, Arthur. You did good._

 

* * *

 

_This spell you’ve got on me…._

 

* * *

 

Consciousness came to her, and she was pine.

 

Japanese red pine, to be exact. As she manifested in the physical world, she mentally scoped out her newfound form, noting the lightness which belied its stubborn strength; this could only be pine. The wood was not her first preference, but for the purposes of this mission it would do admirably.

 

Next, her surroundings—a forest, of course, ever her home field. And how  _dense_  it was: by the angles of the few shafts of light which penetrated to the forest floor, she guessed it to be close to midday, and yet the woods were shaded as if evening had fallen. Plenty of spare biomass to collect.

 

Where was she, though? And  _when_  was she? By her standards, her last sojourn in the physical world had been not so very long ago, but humans bloomed and withered with the speed of daylily flowers; how long had she left their world without a custodian? What had changed since her last visit?

 

“Hello?”

 

This was a man’s voice, she guessed, in a human language whose name escaped her. As her form fully separated from the tree of its birth, alighting upon the forest floor, she looked round and saw a hesitant man in the distance walking toward her. “Are you okay?” he asked, as his boots crunched the autumn leaves below.

 

She sighed deep within her core, turning away and resting her wooden hand upon the tree. She’d been witnessed. Complications—always, complications… but perhaps this one could be useful in the short term.

 

“I saw you hanging from that tree,” he said, still approaching. “I am glad you came down—you don’t have to do it. Do you need someone to talk to?” He shook his head and looked at the ground, clambering over a tangle of roots. “Apologies if I am being too forward.”

 

Hanging from a tree; she didn’t have to do it; did she need someone to talk to? And now that she thought of it, the man had to be speaking Japanese. Impulses fired along xylem and phloem pathways, putting the information together into a conclusion, one which she confirmed by feeling out the forest floor: shallow, dense, and volcanic. This was Aokigahara, Japan’s Sea of Trees.

 

“My phone has reception,” the man said, pulling a small metal block from the pocket of his clothing and unfolding it like a small book. “Is there someone you would like me to….”

 

Perhaps he had poor eyesight: the man had gotten closer than she might have anticipated before he finally saw the truth. Before he saw that she was not human at all.

 

With a shaky hand, he held up his 'phone’ and pressed something on the side. A flash of light came out, striking her in her cellulose eyes like a musket flash. She blinked, then stepped forward; this was a new development. “What is that device?” she demanded.

 

He turned away with a wavering cry and ran, stumbling over loose roots as he crammed the phone back in his pocket. He might as well have tried to run from air, or from light. She closed her eyes and fell back into her tree of origin, and then she was in the tree closest to him; then she was out of the tree and inches from his face. “What is that device?” she repeated.

 

He tried to flee again, but before he could turn around she called the forest to him. The trees at his sides erupted into new growth, sending out creepers that grabbed his arms like snakes, pulling him to his knees. “Oh, heavens,” he whimpered, and tried to flinch away as she reached toward him, her hand getting ever closer to his neck—

 

She reached down into his pocket and pulled out the phone. “This device you call 'phone’,” she said, opening it as he had done. It had a black glass screen on its upper face and a series of buttons labeled with numbers on the lower one. “What is its purpose?”

 

“Wh-what?”

 

She glanced up at him through half-lidded eyes, and he stammered, “It’s a phone! Um, a flip phone, you use it to talk to other people or take pictures or texts or—y-you can have it, just please don’t kill me,  _please_  don’t kill me—”

 

“To talk to other people? From a great distance?” She pressed a number, and the screen lit up with an image: it took her a moment to realize it was herself. “A portable, wireless telegram… and instant portraiture, too. Yes,” she said, opening a pocket on the side of her body and putting the phone inside it. “Yes, this will be useful to me.”

 

“Y-you can have it, it’s yours, just—”

 

“What year is it?” She kneeled to his level, putting the two of them face to face. “What are the date and the year by human reckoning?”

 

“Um—October 4th, 2014?”

 

“Are you asking me, or telling me?”

 

He gulped. “October 4th, 2014.”

 

So it had been little more than a hundred years, and yet human technology—an oxymoron, as far as she had believed—had progressed this far. She would need to get very up-to-date indeed if she wanted to find her quarry with a minimum of fuss. She nodded once, and curtly. “Thank you. Your help has been noted.”

 

She stood, and at her command so did he, as the wood restraining his arms rose and pulled him up. As she reached her hand toward his face, he pulled away, mewling with fear. “Are you going to kill me?” he asked.

 

Her eyebrows rose in imitation of the human gesture that had been popular during her last visit, at least. “Kill you?” She let her hand rest against his trembling face. “Why should I kill you? The dead talk.”

 

“Oh,” he said, breathing hard, “thank you, thank you so much—”

 

Her index and middle fingers extended sharply, up into his nostrils. He let out a choked gasp as she directed her tendrils through his nasal cavity. “The  _braindead_ ,” she said, as those tendrils reached his gray matter, and as his eyes went wide and glassy like phone screens, “are  _silent_.”

 

Spirits were hard to destroy—most injuries to them resulted in either complete annihilation or inevitable recovery—but humans had off switches. With a few deft movements her fingers destroyed certain vital neuron clusters, with the ease of a tailor snipping loose threads from a dress; then she withdrew her hand and released his arms. He fell to the ground face first, breathing shallowly. He wouldn’t do anything else for the rest of his life.

 

She turned away from the casualty, chose a direction, and started walking. She could have simply let herself appear in a tree at the forest’s edge, but this way would give her time to familiarize herself with the phone. With a tool this powerful at her disposal, she’d finish this mission in record time.

 

She smiled, and her wooden steps crushed leaves underfoot.  _You can’t run forever, mutt._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major thanks to Tumblr user Squigglydigg for help with the choreography!


	9. Interlude II: Gangnam Style

“One order of candy corn enchiladas!” said the waiter’s voice from outside the kitchen.

 

“Candy corn enchiladas!” Lewis repeated. With one long arm he reached into the pantry and grabbed the vegetable oil without looking; with the other he opened the cabinet above his head, weaving around the door as it swung out, and grabbed a pan. Two and two came together: with professional efficiency the oil was in the pan, the pan was on the stove, the stove was on medium.

 

In Pepper Paradiso’s kitchen, controlled cacophony was the order of the day. Other orders came and went at incredible speeds—two candied chicken burritos for table six, a bowl of yin-yang soup at the bar—but cacophony was constant and multi-dimensional, enveloping all the senses.

 

“Lewis, where’s the thing?” his dad called from across the kitchen.

 

“What thing, Dad?”

 

“The, the thing, you know! The choppy thing!”

 

“You had the knife last, Dad!”

 

The arguments from within the kitchen, and shouted orders from without, served as brief interruptions to the constant sound of vent fans blowing, of open flames burning, of a radio which was on for some reason. Was anyone even listening to it? Lewis was the only one who ever did, and he could barely hear it at the moment.

 

“Here,” said Mrs. Pepper, and picked up the knife from directly in front of her husband.

 

His hand touched hers for a moment as he took the knife—his as white as chocolate, and hers as dark. “You’re the best,” he said, briefly standing on tiptoe to peck her on the cheek. Then the staccato of blade meeting cutting board—with onions in the way—joined the chorus.

 

Lewis’s eyes watered from the onions: another sensation into the mix, as he pulled down a pot from the upper cabinet and prepared the sauce. He felt the heat searing his exposed skin—precious little of that, with his white and pink uniform covering his body—and he felt his sweat everywhere, despite the fans’ most exhaustive efforts. He closed his eyes for a moment and sensed his heart beating at about… ninety per minute.  _Might want to bring that down._

 

“Soup is done,” said Mrs. Pepper, striding over to the window and depositing a bowl on the windowsill. Lewis saw his dad glare at the bowl; the soup was merely sweet, and Mr. Pepper had little patience for foods which resigned themselves to just  _one_  flavor.

 

Then the moment passed: a waiter came, emptied the windowsill, and the Peppers were back to work, adding to the cacophony of sight. Knives flashed, chopping vegetables into perfect proportions. Lewis returned his attention to his workspace, and finished pulling the enchilada sauce together like an artist mixing paint, with all the speed of an assembly line. This was industry; this was art.

 

Loudest of all was the cacophony of  _smells_ , of  _tastes_. Lewis took a deep breath in and relished the onions, the peppers, the chocolate with which his father was coating the onions, and dozens more he couldn’t even name. They mixed in the turbulent kitchen air without ever clashing.

 

Well,  _almost_  never clashing.

 

“Lewis, where’s the thing?” his father asked again, as a  _ding_  sounded from across the kitchen.

 

“What’s ‘the thing’, Dad?”

 

“The thing!” Mr. Pepper waved his hands around. “The pointy thing!”

 

Lewis held up a sharp deboning knife—well, technically it was a  _boning_  knife, but considering that it _removed_  bones, this seemed more appropriate. “I’ll need it right back. For the enchiladas.”

 

“No, the  _other_  one!”

 

“The other knife?”

 

“You put it in stuff to see if it’s done!”

 

“Cake tester!” Lewis pulled open the upper cabinet once more, pulled out Cherry’s Lego house and placed it on the counter—he  _really_  had to find a better place for his sister’s trinket—then reached in for the tester. “Here you—”

 

He’d accidentally grabbed his key. He hastily put it back, grabbed the cake tester that had been next to the key and under the house, and tossed it to his father. “Here you go.”

 

“Okay!” Mr. Pepper pulled an oven mitt onto one hand, then crouched in front of the oven. “Heaven and Hell Cake, mark eighty six!”

 

He pulled the door open. Lewis fought off the urge to gag as the smell hit his nose like a baseball bat, and he buried his face in his sleeve.  _Heartbeat_ _’s_ _increasing. Deep breaths, but… shallow._

 

Mr. Pepper’s face fell, and he held the cake tester in front of himself, but didn’t bother to stick it into the eldritch confection. “I shouldn’t bother, should I?”

 

Mrs. Pepper leaned in, took a single sniff, and shook her head. “It smells like a war crime.” Mr. Pepper sighed, then pulled the cake out with his mitt. Lewis knew the cake was supposed to look like… actually, he didn’t remember anymore. His dad had been working on it for two years, and hadn’t gotten it right once. Still, he could guess it wasn’t supposed to look like it had been mined rather than cooked.

 

Mr. Pepper’s shoulders tensed up for a few seconds; then he took a deep breath and they relaxed. “I just overdid it on the sugar,” he said, crossing to the door and opening it, then throwing the offending brick through it and into the dumpster outside. “Next time I’ll get it.”

 

“Of course you will, cupcake.” Mrs. Pepper kissed his hair, and Mr. Pepper giggled. Lewis rolled his eyes and got to deboning his chicken. Eighty six times his dad had tried, eighty six times he had failed, and eighty six times he had said the same five words.

 

“Next time I’ll get it,” Lewis muttered, shaking his head. Dad didn’t know when to quit.

 

“ _Moooooom!_ _Daaaaaaad! Lewwwwiiis!_ ” This was Ginnie’s voice, from the Peppers’ office upstairs, which doubled as a play space for the three Pepper sisters during the day. “ _Bell and Cherry are fighting again!_ ”

 

“We’re  _not!_ ” yelled Bell. “You’re a  _jerk_ , Ginnie!”

 

“Get your butts down here,” Mrs. Pepper said, and despite the fact that she hadn’t raised her voice the sound carried over all the kitchen’s cacophony. The stairs thudded with three pairs of feet as the sisters obeyed their mother’s command.

 

“Ewwww, gross,” Bell said, squeezing her nose as she entered the kitchen, being sure to stay well to the side. “Daaaaad, did you try to make the Heaven and Hell Cake again?”

 

Ginnie gasped. “You can’t say the H-word!”

 

“It’s just what it’s  _called!_ ”

 

Mr. Pepper smiled. “Got me there, White Chocolate Chip. What’s the fuss?”

 

“Ugggh,” Bell groaned, her light cheeks flaring almost as red as her cerise hair. “Cherry keeps hogging the computer, and I want to play Minecraft too! She just keeps making dumb music things.”

 

“It’s redstone,” Cherry murmured from the stairs. Her tiny posture was bent inward, like a shut oyster. “It’s not dumb, it’s cool. Like a computer.”

 

Bell stomped on the floor. “Whatever! It’s my turn!” Then she turned to Lewis. “What do you think?”

 

Lewis smiled, turned down the heat on the oil, then crouched down to Cherry’s eye level. “Cherry,” he said, “what are you making in Minecraft right now?”

 

“It’s a song.” She didn’t look up at him. “I’m hooking up the redstone and it’s gonna play a song. And I’m not done yet.”

 

“How long have you been working on it?”

 

“ _Forever!_ ” Bell groaned.

 

“About an hour and a half,” Ginnie said. Cherry nodded at this.

 

“And how long until you’re done?” Lewis asked.

 

“Half an hour?”

 

Lewis shook his head. “Do you think you can let your sister play, and come back to it later?”

 

“… okay.”

 

“Woohoo!” With blink-and-miss-it speed, Bell was up the stairs. “Thanks, Lewis! I’m gonna kick some skeleton butt!”

 

“Skeletons don’t  _have_  butts!” Ginnie said, as she followed her upstairs.

 

“ _You’re_  a butt!”

 

“ _WHAT_ _?_ ”

 

Lewis chuckled at this, and Cherry giggled too, finally looking up at him. “ _Eh_ ,” he said, “want to taste something delicious?”

 

Cherry followed him into the main part of the kitchen as he grabbed a teaspoon in one hand, then picked her up with the other. “Careful,” he said, as she squeaked from the sudden height. He picked up a minute morsel of the enchilada sauce with the spoon, then offered it to her. “It’s hot.”

 

She took the spoon and blew on the sauce, then put the spoon in her mouth and ate it. “Good,” she said, after swallowing.

 

“Kinda sweet, right? That’s the brown sugar.”

 

“Yeah. Hey—” She pointed at the Lego house, which still sat on the small lip behind the stove. “It’s too—it’s too….” She gulped.

 

“ _¿Qué?_ ” Lewis asked. Her eyes flicked down to the stovetop, and Lewis understood. “Too close to the fire. Okay.” He took the spoon from her and set it down, then picked up the house and placed it back up in the cabinet. For some reason, his youngest sister got a little…  _spooked_  about fire. “Want down?” he asked, and when she nodded he lowered her to the floor.

 

“Hey, boss.”

 

This was Clyde, the maitre d’, a huge black man—huge meaning close to Lewis’s height. He was crouched slightly to look through the serving window. “There’s a girl here with a dude and her dog, and… they say they’re some sort of paranormal investigators? She said you’d know to call them the 'Mystery Skulls’.”

 

“What?” Lewis, who had been on the verge of pulling out some tortillas, turned around to face his parents. To his disappointment, they both wore looks of recognition. “Come on, Mom. Dad. You can’t be seriously calling  _ghostbusters_.”  _Pulse at eighty_ , he noticed, just to be sure.

 

Mr. Pepper shrugged. “Lewis, we’re running out of options. People are starting to notice.”

 

“There’s no such thing as ghosts!” Lewis took a deep breath out of habit. “Or vampires, or werewolves, or whatever load of  _mierda_ —”

 

“ _Language,_ ” his mother said, cutting across him the sharpness of a boning knife. Or deboning knife. Either way.

 

“—whatever they’re going to tell you it is. It’s fake.”

 

His father shook his head. “Lewis, if this doesn’t work, you tell us what we should try next.” With immense effort—standing on the points of his feet, stretching his arm to its limit—Mr. Pepper reached up and tousled Lewis’s hair. “Lunch rush is just about over. Do you think you can hold the fort alone for a minute or two?”

 

Lewis sighed. “Yeah.”

 

“Okay. Your mother and I are going to see if these investigators are all they claim to be.”

 

The two of them glanced at each other, then walked from the room as a single unit. Lewis sighed, then turned back to retrieve the tortillas for the enchiladas. He grabbed a big tray, covered it in tinfoil, and reached into the pantry to grab the candy corn—the trick was to keep it from melting in the enchilada. Then, he glanced around to see if anyone was watching.

 

Satisfied that no one was, Lewis turned up the radio. Now that it was just him, he could listen all he wanted… for two minutes, but still. And as a familiar electronic beat revved up, he grinned. “ _Oppa Gangnam Style,_ ” he said.

 

* * *

 

“I’ve made a horrible mistake,” Arthur coughed through a mouthful of food. His eyes watered as he pulled his napkin from his lap, spat the food into it, then downed his glass of water in one gulp. It didn’t seem to have helped.

 

“I’ve made a  _wonderful_  mistake,” Vivi said. Her eyes watered just the same, but these were tears of joy as well as spiciness. She’d ordered the choco-lickin’ fajitas, while he’d opted for the caramales. So, had Vivi made the better choice, or was Arthur just a wimp? These were the questions that kept her up at night.

 

“Oh my god, my entire head is on fire.” Arthur gagged, and Vivi pushed her unused glass of water to him; he downed that too. “How does this even count as food?”

 

“This coming from the sole eater of Surf’s Up Surprise on this or any other planet.” Vivi rolled her eyes. “Who are you to decide what is and is not food?”

 

“Excuse  _you,_  Surf’s Up Surprise is not a food. It is a  _lifestyle_ , and I want you to respect that.” Arthur grabbed one of his uneaten caramales—caramel tamales—and passed it beneath the table where Mystery was sitting. Mystery sniffed at the food, then grabbed it and started chomping without removing the corn leaf wrapping first. Like pet, like owner: he was about as omnivorous as Vivi.

 

“Hey, you,” said a deep voice. The two of them looked up to see a large black man in an impeccable maitre d’’s outfit. “I don’t know how you snuck your dog in here, but we have a 'no pets allowed’ policy.”

 

“Oh, it’s fine!” Vivi flashed a winning smile. “He’s very well trained. Mystery!” She looked down and pointed at him. “Speak!”

 

Mystery made no sound. “You see?” she said, looking back up at the maitre d’. “He’s so well trained he won’t bark in a crowded restaurant, even if we tell him to.”

 

“It’s not that, ma'am.” The maitre d’ turned toward one of the adjacent tables. “Some of our other patrons may have allergies.”

 

Indeed, the man sitting at that table had tears streaming from his eyes. However, he waved the maitre d’ off. “It’s fine,” he said, “I don’t have allergies. I’m just… really sad… for some reason.” He sobbed and buried his head in his arms on the table.

 

Vivi shrugged. “You heard the man, he’s sad. Look,” she continued, holding up a hand as the maitre d’ tried to get another few words in. “It’s fine. Just tell the Peppers that the paranormal investigators they called are here to see them. The Mystery Skulls.”

 

The maitre d’ shrugged. “And if they don’t know what you’re talking about, the dog goes. Fine by me.”

 

“Vivi?” Arthur asked, as the maitre d’ left. “Why didn’t we just tell them we were the Mystery Skulls when we got here?”

 

“This way, we get to scope out the place.” Vivi grabbed her napkin and wiped her lips. “See if we can find anything spooky.”

 

Arthur snorted. “You mean you were hungry.”

 

“Pajamas, pajahmas.”

 

“Let’s call the whole thing off?”

 

“Basically.”

 

They shared a chuckle, and then Vivi saw a man and a woman approaching them from the back of the restaurant; these could only be the Peppers. At least, she had a pretty strong hunch that these were the Peppers, considering that the woman had dark red hair with a black tuft on the upper end that made it look like a pepper. As for the man…

 

Vivi tried to think of something to compare his hair to, and failed. She tried again, and settled for a cross between a dog and a cupcake, but it wasn’t perfect. She scratched her head, wondering what combination of genetics, dye, and hair gel had enabled a do like that.

 

“Welcome to Pepper Paradiso!” said Mr. Pepper, holding out his hand. “I’m Juan, and this is my wife Tia.” Mrs. Pepper nodded.

 

Vivi stood up and shook his hand. “Vivi, and this is Arthur.” Arthur waved. “So,” she continued, “what’s the problem?”

 

Mr. Pepper grinned nervously. “Can we talk in the back room?”

 

“Of course. Come on, Mystery!” Vivi said. At this command, the dog stood and padded after Vivi and Arthur, who followed the Peppers as they walked through the restaurant.

 

“We weren’t sure whether to call you,” Mr. Pepper said, his voice hushed as they weaved around tables. “Our son Lewis doesn’t believe in your… line of work, and I’m a little skeptical myself, but we’re running out of ideas.”

 

“Well, I’ll be happy to prove all you Peppers wrong.” Vivi winked, and for some reason, Mrs. Pepper chuckled. “What?”

 

“You’d still have to convince Lewis,” Mrs. Pepper said, sotto voce.

 

They were at the back of the restaurant now, and Vivi heard the noises of work in the kitchen: vent fans running, oil sizzling… and an electronic tune she recognized immediately. Everyone in the world knew this song by now, whether they liked it or not.

 

“Here he is now!” Mr. Pepper said, as they stopped in front of the door. It had a circular window, like a porthole, which was just short enough for Vivi to see the man inside.

 

_Oh, no._

 

He had a huge pink pompadour, a massive upper body that seemed barely contained inside his double breasted jacket, and he was cooking tortillas in oil to the tune of Gangnam Style. “ _Op—op—op—oppa Gangnam Style_ ,” he said, waving one fist above his head as his feet did the horseback dance.

 

Vivi’s mouth hung open.  _Oh, no. He’s hot._

 

“We’ve found your problem,” Arthur said, keeping a straight face. “Your radio has clearly been possessed by some demonic entity, who is making it play the music of the damned. We’ll do an exorcism right away.”

 

“Eh?” Mr. Pepper’s eyebrows shot up. “Uh, no, it’s… supposed to be doing that.”

 

Arthur’s eyes went wide. “Vivi,” he said, “we’re in over our heads. We gotta get out of… are you listening?” he asked, his head tilting to the side as he looked at her. “I am spitting out comedy gold here.”

 

“ _Eyyyyyyy, sexy lady,_ ” Lewis sang, doing the shuffle step as he flipped a tortilla over.

 

“Vivi, you okay?” Arthur asked, waving a hand in front of her face.

 

Somehow, this triggered her brain to unfreeze like a computer, and process the last thing she’d heard before locking up:  _You’d still have to convince Lewis._  “Wait,” she blurted, looking at Mrs. Pepper, “is Lewis adopted?”

 

“Wha—” Lewis had heard. He glanced through the door, and apparently he hadn’t expected there to be people watching him on the other side. “Gah!” He flinched in the middle of a step, losing his balance. His arms flailed, trying to get himself centered, but all he managed to do was bang open a cabinet above his head.

 

Down he went, crashing to the floor like a mighty redwood. As he looked up, his cheeks red with embarrassment, they all saw a stack of pans that had been knocked to the edge of the cabinet’s shelf. The stack teetered, its center of gravity shifting  _just_  past the edge. “No,” Lewis stammered, “n—n—no no no—”

 

_Crash._  What seemed like the entire contents of the cabinet disgorged themselves onto Lewis’s body. Pot after pan struck his chest, a key fell smack on his nose, and a Lego house hit the floor and exploded into pieces.

 

“Lewis!” Mr. Pepper punched through the kitchen’s double doors, with his wife just behind them, and the two of them converged on Lewis. “Are you okay?” Arthur was right behind them, worry filling his face.

 

“I'm—I'm— _chinga—_ ” His face was getting redder, his jaw locking into a grimace.

 

“Pulse,” Mr. Pepper said, and Lewis closed his eyes. His nascent grimace melted away. “It’s just an accident,” Mr. Pepper continued, his hand on his son’s shoulder as his wife picked up the pans. “It’s just stuff. Are  _you_  okay?”

 

“ _Si_ , fine.” Lewis sat up and held out his hands. Mr. Pepper grabbed one, Arthur grabbed the other, and together they pulled him to his feet—or at least halfway, thanks to his height. “Sorry, Dad. Sorry, Mom.”

 

“It’s okay,” Mrs. Pepper said, “but watch your language.”

 

“Sorry,” Lewis repeated, as Mrs. Pepper closed the cabinet, then got to work finishing the cooking that Lewis had been working on. With his blush still on his face, he turned to face Vivi. “You must be the Mystery—”

 

He was interrupted by the frantic sounds of footsteps. The Peppers, and Lewis, turned around as a young girl with pink hair—and red dog-eared side-bangs, like her father—ran down the stairs. “I heard a crash,” she said, then stopped and looked down at the ground in front of her, where a corner of the Lego house lay. She picked it up and began to cry.

 

“No, no,” Lewis said, crouching down beside her. “Don’t cry, Cherry. It’s okay.” In his crouched posture, his uniform was pressed tight against his body, showing off his back muscles. Vivi shook herself.

 

“It’s  _broken_ ,” Cherry sobbed.

 

“Just because it’s broken—” Lewis picked up another piece from behind her, then attached it onto the piece she held “—that doesn’t mean you can’t fix it. Eh?”

 

But it wasn’t helping. Cherry just kept crying, and mucus was dripping from her nose now. “Why am I so sad?” she sobbed. “I know it’s gonna be okay, Lewis, but—but—I’m so sad….”

 

“Like that other guy,” Arthur muttered. “The one who didn’t have allergies. Is this why you called us here, Mr. and Mrs. Pepper?”

 

Mr. Pepper sighed. “I suppose you could say that. People just keep… bursting into tears at the slightest provocation. They just keep getting… sad.”

 

Cherry was still sobbing, so Lewis sighed. “All right, let’s get you back upstairs. Let’s go.” He picked her up and carried her up the stairs.

 

With him out of earshot, Vivi let herself…  _buckle_  a bit. “Arthur, hold me,” she whispered as she leaned into him. “I think I’ve just gone weak in the everything.”

 

“ _What?_ ” he whispered back, then glanced up at the Peppers. Vivi did too, and noticed they were giving them strange looks. This was no time to lose her composure.

 

“So!” she said, straightening up. “How about we help you, uh, clean up, and you can tell us all about the details! I think I saw some Legos over here.” She turned around and bent down, grateful of the chance to conceal her face, and started gathering pieces.

 

“I don’t know how much there is to tell,” Mr. Pepper said. “When it started last month, we’d have maybe one incident every… four days, or so? But now we’re getting several times a day. People are getting suspicious.”

 

“What have you ruled out?” Arthur asked, his deft hands picking up Legos twice as fast as Vivi’s did and clicking them back together.

 

“Gas leak… allergens… we even had the restaurant sprayed for pests.” Mr. Pepper sighed. “As if pests would make people sad.”

 

“Hmm.” Vivi pursed her lips in thought. “So now we’ll see if it’s something supernatural.” She noticed something that wasn’t a Lego on the ground—the key that had struck Lewis in the nose. It was rusty and old-fashioned, like the kind a nineteenth century jailer might use. “Hey,” she asked, standing up and holding out the key, “I found thi _iiiii_ _hhh_ —”

 

Lewis had just come down the stairs. He noticed the key in her hand, crossed the room, and grabbed it. “Thanks,” he said, and the word came out short and clipped.

 

“What does that open?” she asked, as he reached around his mother and put it in the cabinet.

 

“It doesn’t.” The cabinet slammed shut. “Not anymore.”

 

“Oooh,” she said, a smile coming to her face. “ _Mysterious._ ”

 

He ignored her and crouched down, looking for more Lego pieces. “Hey,” she asked, “does it have anything to do with how you’re a—”

 

“ _Vivi!_ ” Arthur said.

 

She looked at him. “What?” He glared at her from his crouched position on the floor, and after a moment she got it. “Right, yeah.” She filed away questions about the key for later.

 

“Let me just….” Arthur had mostly reassembled the house by this point, and he walked over to Lewis and tapped him on the shoulder. Lewis looked up, and Arthur held out his hand. “I think I can put it back together.”

 

“Thanks,” Lewis said, placing another dozen parts into Arthur’s palm.

 

Vivi shook herself; she had a job to do. She pulled out her phone and searched the house’s address on an app Arthur had thrown together, one which checked through as many relevant news archives as it could find. If something supernatural was going on, the first place to look was the past.

 

It didn’t take long. “Arthur?” she said.

 

“Yeah?” he said, looking up as he pressed the last blocks into place. Lewis gratefully took the house from his hand as Arthur walked over to her.

 

“Look what I found,” she said, offering him her phone. “Turns out this building used to be a house, and….”

 

He took the phone, which was displaying a grainy old page of newsprint. It was an obituary:  _Howard_ _ROTHMAN departed this world on June the twenty-eighth, 1907, at the tender age of eight years, four months, and seven days. He will be missed by his parents,_ _Jackson and Elizabeth of 226 Bellamy Lane,_ _who_ _shall always_ _love_ _him dearly._

 

“That’s not much,” Arthur said, handing back her phone, “but it’s something. Might be our  _who_.”

 

“You mean  _what_ ,” Vivi said. “But yeah, then we just need  _how_  and  _why_.”

 

Lewis snorted.“Great. You want me to believe a ghost child is making everyone sad.” He returned the Lego house to its cabinet of origin, then went to a sink and washed his hands. “ _Santa Maria_ ,” he said, chuckling. “Do you actually believe this stuff, or do you just think the Discovery Channel will pick you up eventually?”

 

“I know it sounds crazy,” Arthur said. “I didn’t exactly believe it either, but….”

 

“But then she bribed you to go along with it?”

 

Her face dead-set in an angry glare, Vivi crossed the room and stood directly behind Lewis, just as he finished drying his hands and turned around. “Excuse me,” he said.

 

“Darned  _right_ , excuse you.” Her arms folded in front of her chest. “I’ll have you know that ghosts  _do_ exist. I’ll have you know that we’ve both  _seen_  them. So don’t accuse me of paying off my best friend.”

 

“Tell you what,” Lewis said, leaning closer to her. “I’ll believe you…  _if_  you can show me a ghost.”

 

She didn’t give an inch; in fact, she leaned closer to him. “Maybe I  _will_.” Their faces were inches from each other.

 

Arthur snorted. “Get a room, you two.”

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

The two of them spoke in unison, their heads snapping to look at Arthur and the grin plastered on his face. “What—you—you stop that!” Vivi sputtered, backing away from Lewis as he backed away from her.

 

Arthur shrugged, still keeping the same smile. “Just messin’ with you guys.” The Peppers, who were each cooking at the counters, chuckled too.

 

Lewis shrugged. “It was kind of funny.”

 

“See, Vivi?” Arthur pointed at Lewis with both hands. “What did I tell you? Comedy  _gold_.”

 

Vivi noticed a sniffing noise and looked down. Mystery was walking across the floor, nose down like a bloodhound. “What is it, Mystery?” she asked.

 

The dog approached Lewis, who watched with raised eyebrows as Mystery sniffed at his feet, then looked up at him, wagging his tail. “Aww,” Vivi said, “he likes—” She cut herself short as Mystery turned away from Lewis and continued sniffing. “Never mind.”

 

“What is he doing?” Lewis asked, pouting.

 

“I’m not sure, but he’s one canny little canine.” She walked behind Mystery as he came to a halt in front of the pantry, then looked up and barked. “Is there something in there?” she asked, and he barked again.

 

“All the chicken a dog could want,” Lewis said, and he had a point: the pantry’s right wall was covered in shelves, and the shelves were covered in food. On the left was a row of freezers and refrigerators, with another pair against the back wall. “I’m not sure what this is going to accomplish.”

 

“Neither am I, but I have a hunch….” Vivi closed the pantry door. “It’s a bit of a longshot, but I’m going to try an endocism.”

 

“A what?” Lewis asked, as Vivi closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

 

“Opposite of an exorcism,” Arthur said. “You don’t throw the ghost out of where you are, you go into where it is.”

 

Vivi opened her eyes and stared at the steel door, then stepped forward and knocked three times. “Howard?” she asked. “Howard Rothman? Are you there?”

 

Behind her, she heard Lewis stifle a laugh, and she ignored him. “I’m Vivi,” she said. “Vivi Lee. I was wondering if my friends and I could come in and meet you. Is that okay?”

 

She waited for about twenty seconds, but no response. “Well,” Lewis said, “I’m convinced. Pardon me, I need to get in there.”

 

He made to step past her, but she threw up her arm and held him back. “We have a puppy!” she added. “Do you like puppies?”

 

_SLAM._

 

The pantry door flew open, and there wasn’t a pantry behind it. Instead, Vivi saw a dusty, dark hallway with cracked, old-fashioned wallpaper. Gas lamps on the walls provided the only illumination: none of the bright light from the main kitchen was able to reach inside. The whole thing was wavy and indistinct, as if viewed through a sheet of water.

 

Vivi smirked, and looked up at Lewis’s bemused expression. “Well,” she said, “you’re convinced.”

 

“Are we….” Mr. Pepper scratched his head. “Are we going to be able to use that pantry?”

 

“I’ll let you know.” Vivi waved Arthur to her. “Come on, Art, we’re gonna meet little Howard. And you!” she added, grabbing Lewis’s hand.

 

He flinched at the contact. “Me?” he added.

 

“You wanted me to show you a ghost, didn’t you? When are you gonna get a better chance than this?”

 

He looked back at his parents, and seemed to be silently begging them to give him a reason not to go—but they did not deliver. “It’s okay, Lewis,” said his mother, who was working on the tortillas that Lewis had left unattended. “We can handle things.”

 

Lewis looked at what had been the pantry again, and then he shrugged. “Well… all right. Impress me.”

 

Vivi smiled up at him. “I can promise that.”

 

She walked forward, and he let her pull him forward. As she crossed the threshold, she felt some resistance, as if the air had turned to liquid; then she was through. Once Arthur and Mystery had followed behind, the door slammed shut behind them.

 

* * *

 

“ _Eyyyyyyy, sexy lady,_ ” said the radio. Tia switched it off, then returned to work on the enchiladas.

 

Mr. Pepper didn’t speak for a long minute; he just stared at the door that had slammed shut. “Well,” he finally said, “that was… what’s the word? Opposite of usual?”

 

“Weird.” Tia added the last candy corns to the enchiladas, then rolled them up and covered them with sauce and cheese. She opened the oven, popped the food in, and chuckled as she closed it.

 

“What’s that smile all about?” Mr. Pepper asked, crouching beside her as they watched the cheese melt.

 

“Lewis made a friend,” she said, a small smile on her face.

 

“You think?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Mr. Pepper couldn’t help himself. He laughed and kissed his Tia full on the cheek, just as she opened the oven door and pulled the enchiladas out. Between Lewis’s sisters, his schoolwork, and the time he spent in the kitchen, Lewis didn’t spend much of any time socializing. Maybe calling these Mystery Skulls would end up better than they’d thought was possible.

 

* * *

 

“Yes… yes… I—I understand.”

 

It was all Mr. Pepper could do to keep the phone in his grip from crashing to the floor. “No, I… yes, I’ll come as soon as I can,” he said, to words he didn’t even understand. All he understood was the _message_. “Thank you for—for calling.” With clumsy hands he pushed the phone into its cradle.

 

“Juan?” his wife asked, walking in from the dining room. She’d been setting the table for three, in preparation of Lewis returning home with his friends for a late dinner. “What’s wrong?”

 

He told her. He didn’t know what he was saying, but again the message, the horrible  _message_ , came through clear.

 

“No,” she mumbled, shaking her head and backing away.

 

He moved in and grabbed her in a tight hug. He didn’t know if he was trying to support her, or to be supported. “What are we going to tell the girls?” he whispered.

 

“What are we going to tell ourselves?” she asked.

 

The two of them fell to their knees, as Tia’s wail of grief began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major thanks to Tumblr user Carranzis for the Pepper sisters' designs!


	10. The First-Case Scenario—Lewis's Home

A boy walked down the street of a town whose name he couldn’t pronounce, and he didn’t care enough to try. Two years of wandering had taught him a lot, but advanced reading had not been one of his lessons, and this place’s sign had a bunch of letters that didn’t make sense together. It wasn’t like he would be here long enough to need to know it, anyway.

 

His limbs seemed to have been whittled from matchsticks, and inexpertly so: scratches and scuffs populated the skin and collected at the joints. Even so, the fire in his eyes and in his posture suggested he didn’t need muscle mass to cause pain. If anyone else had been on the sidewalk at this late hour, they’d have crossed to the other side of the street—or called the police.

 

Two days, he figured. He wasn’t always good at keeping track of time, but he was pretty sure his last good meal had been two days ago, and he didn’t want to get to three… or was it four? He grabbed the key hanging from his neck and rubbed its pointy parts against his forehead, forcing himself to concentrate. Then he let go and peered around at the houses lining the street, barely lit by streetlamps. Boring white house, small gray house, short dark red house—

 

A veritable mansion in yellow siding and pink shingles, three stories tall and with a width to match. Any family in that heaven would have food to spare.

 

He ran up the cobblestone walk and pounded on the door. “ _¡_ _Oy, déjame entrar!_ ” he yelled, in a voice that ran ragged through his parched throat.

 

A baby began wailing in the house, and the sound seemed to beat on the boy’s head like a brandished pan. “Shut up!” he screamed, pounding harder on the door as the wailing came closer, and lights turned on at the house’s first floor.

 

The door opened. The boy looked up at a dark-skinned woman with the wailing child held at her breast, and a swollen belly under her shirt that must have held another on the way. She stared down at the boy, and his determination wavered; if his posture suggested not to mess with him, then this woman’s posture outright  _stated_  it.

 

He opened his mouth, but words that started in his mind as “Give me some food!” somehow turned into, “Help me.” He cursed inside his head: his two years had taught him to take the initiative—to demand, not beg.

 

She looked behind herself, and he braced for a door slam, but instead she called up the stairs: “Juan! There’s a skeleton on our doorstep!”

 

“It can’t be Halloween already,” came the groaned reply. “I haven’t done the cooking….”

 

“Come down,” the woman said. Before the boy could react, she grabbed his arm, pulled him over the threshold, and closed the door.

 

The boy hardly had any time to look up and around as he was yanked through the house, but he used the few seconds and saw a dining table with fine silver candlesticks; a violin gathering dust atop a bookshelf; a toddler’s playpen littered with toys. Somewhere in his befuddled mind a voice told him that he’d maybe chosen the right house.

 

The woman deposited him in what had to be the kitchen—a shinier, cleaner, and  _larger_  kitchen than anything he’d ever seen. “Wash your hands,” she said, pointing at a sink as she opened the pantry. The baby kept wailing, so she rocked it with her arm and cooed, “It’s okay, Bell. It’s okay.”

 

He didn’t move, so she closed the pantry without taking anything out and looked at him. “Wash your hands.”

 

“Why?” he asked, starting to panic. In the corner of the room was a phone. She’d tricked him in here so she could call the police on him.

 

Another rule of the wanderer: take control of the situation, whether you want to or not. He ran to a knife block on the counter, pulled a knife out of it, and pointed it at her, keeping himself between her and the phone. “Give me some food,” he said, with a voice angry enough that it did not shake. “ _¡Ahora!_ ” He’d make himself pay for this later, he didn’t know how—but he needed the food.

 

She sighed, then shifted the baby to her other arm. “Don’t move!” the boy said, just as she did exactly that. In one fluid motion she stepped forward, grabbed his wrist, and twisted it nearly to its breaking point. With a cry of pain he dropped the knife to the floor.

 

The baby started wailing again. “Ssh, Bell, it’s all right,” said the woman, rocking the infant some more. As the boy clutched his injured hand, she bent down and grabbed the knife, then stood up and pointed it at him. “Wash your hands,” she repeated.

 

With a little gasp that was  _not_  a sob, he turned on the tap and started rubbing his hands together, wincing at the pain. He’d screwed up big time, and now his next meal would be inside a jail cell.

 

“Now sit,” she said, and he pulled out a chair from the counter and sat in it, fighting the urge to tremble. He waited for the three tones from the landline behind him: 9-1-1.

 

A plate was placed in front of him, and on the plate was a bag of… chips? He stared at it, then back at the woman.

 

“It’s just a snack,” she said, looking back at him as she resheathed the knife, “but it’ll tide you over until we can get something proper inside you. Eat.”

 

He sat frozen with confusion until she poured a cup of water from the sink, then placed it next to the plate—and he knew  _exactly_  what to do with water. Down it went, almost in one gulp: then he ripped open the bag and started eating, almost biting his own fingers in eagerness.

 

Footsteps behind him made him turn his head once more, and he saw a white man with white hair—and, also, pink hair at the sides… he stared at the man’s hair, and the man stared at him in return. Finally, the man said, “Oh, you meant he was  _thin_.”

 

“He needs food,” the woman—probably his wife—said.

 

“I can see that.” The man crept closer. “You could pick a lock with those arms! But maybe you wouldn’t need to,” he added, glancing down at the key on the boy’s chest. “What’s that for?” he asked, reaching in.

 

“Don’t touch it!” The boy slapped his hand away, then recoiled at what he’d done—but the man let his hand fall, and smiled. “Please don’t touch it,” he repeated. When was the last time he’d said  _please?_

 

“I won’t touch it,” the man said. He looked around at his wife. “I assume we’re about to do something silly, like letting this… what’s the word?”

 

“Urchin?”

 

“Like letting this urchin stay the night.”

 

The woman nodded, her back turned as she lit the stove. The warm smell of gas, of cooking, reached the boy’s nose.

 

“Just checking,” the man said, smiling again as he returned his gaze to the boy. “We have a bed you can sleep in, at least for tonight, after you eat the delicious meal we’re about to cook. I’m Mr. Pepper, and this is my wife, Mrs. Pepper. What’s your name?”

 

His name. When was the last time he’d needed that? When was the last time anyone had asked? Fighting back another choking sound—which, he told himself, could not be a sob—the boy said, “Lewis. My name is Lewis.”

 

* * *

 

The Scaravan hit a pothole, and hit it  _hard_. The impact flung Lewis into the back of the front seat, and he bit his tongue against any expletives, settling for a hissed, “ _Estupido._ ”

 

“Sorry,” Arthur said, with only his organic hand on the wheel; his prosthetic was busy shielding his eyes from the morning sun. Thankfully, there weren’t many people on the road, and after the exertions of the previous day the van was moving at a crawl, with many a sputtered protest from the engine. “Sorry again,” Arthur added, as the back wheel hit the pothole too, albeit more gently.

 

Vivi, riding shotgun, sucked in a big breath through her teeth. “What’s wrong?” Lewis asked.

 

“Just a bit bruised,” she said, as she reached a hand through the neckhole of her sweater and rubbed her back. “What with jumping me and Arthur from a second story window and landing on a suit of armor.  _Your_  second story window, by the way,” she added, looking back his way, “and  _your_  suit of armor.”

 

“Sorry,” Lewis said.

 

She shrugged. “ _I_  accept your apology. I’ve got some painkillers back home, anyway.”

 

The van trundled along for a minute more before Lewis said, in a halting tone, “If you don’t want to do this… after all, maybe I should go alone—”

 

“Do you think you can?” she asked.

 

There was a loud gasp from the engine, and then it wound down to silence. The van lurched to a stop. Lewis braced himself against the front seat as the force sent him forward.

 

“No,” Arthur muttered, twisting the key in the ignition. A smattering of coughs came from the engine, along with wisps of red smoke, but the van would not move. Arthur bonked his head against the wheel, honking the horn. “Oh, my god.”

 

“The Scaravan is dead,” Vivi declared, unhooking her seatbelt—right,  _seatbelts._  Lewis looked down at his unused buckle. He was going to have to get used to that again.

 

“I can see that, yeah.” Arthur’s hand went through his hair. “I gotta… aw, jeez.” His seatbelt came off, and with a flurry of movement he was out of the car and opening the hood.

 

Lewis followed behind him just in time to see a cloud of red smoke come out. “I’m no car expert,” Vivi said, scratching her head, “but I’m pretty sure that shouldn’t be red.”

 

“Maybe it’s because of what Mystery did… aw, jeez.” Again with the hand through the hair from Arthur. Lewis was really starting to find it annoying; didn’t he have a better place to put that thing, or anything better to say than ‘aw jeez’ all the time? “I gotta call Uncle Lance—he can tow it,” Arthur continued. “I’ll stay here with the van until—”

 

“Oh, no you don’t,” Vivi said, grabbing his arm. “We’re getting Lewis home first. The van can wait.” She marched Arthur forward, leaving Lewis behind as he stood by the van for a few seconds, staring down the path he’d taken home the first time.

 

It was amazing what death could do to a person’s priorities. For a year he’d fixated on two things: making Arthur suffer and winning back Vivi. Actually, if he was willing to admit it to himself, he’d really only fixated on one of them—but in any case, he hadn’t thought about the spirit in the cave, or Mystery.

 

And he hadn’t thought about his family. Not his father, not his mother. Not Ginnie, nor Bell, nor Cherry. He was a stone’s throw away from their home— _his_  home—and yet it was almost all he could do to keep from running away. With a clenched jaw—or at least the spiritual manifestation of a clenched jaw—he fought off the impulse, and focused on following Vivi as they walked the last two blocks.  _One step at a time._

 

As he walked he saw the old familiar houses: boring white house, which had not changed in almost a decade; no-longer-small gray house, as it had gotten an extension; short and formerly dark red house, now dark orange and all the tackier for it.

 

Bright yellow siding and muted pink shingles. Lewis halted at the cobblestone walk.

 

“We’re here,” Arthur said, stopping Vivi as she almost walked past it.

 

“Oh!” She looked up and down the building. “That’s… jaunty.” Then she looked back at Lewis. “Last chance. Do you want to do this on your own?”

 

He kept staring down at the walkway. Funny how easy it was had been to run across it when all he’d expected past the door was a chance of food, and now it looked like a mile of knives.

 

“Okay. You stay outside, outta sight, but close enough that you can hear. Come on.”

 

With those words, Vivi walked up the walk to the door, and Arthur followed close behind. Lewis followed as well, but ducked to the side of the door and hid behind the bushes beneath the window.

 

“All right,” he heard his dad say inside. “Have a good day at school, you three!”

 

“Yeah,” said Ginnie, “and don’t get in any more fights,  _Bell_.”

 

“What?” his father said.

 

“You  _tattletale!_ ” This was, of course, Bell. Lewis smiled: a year later, she still had quite the pair of lungs. “Dad, it’s not what you think, they were picking on Cherry again!”

 

Vivi stood in front of the door, hand held up, but not knocking. Doubtless she was hearing all this too.

 

“Just because they were being mean,” Ginnie lectured, “you still don’t get to hit them—”

 

“I  _hate_  you!”

 

“You do not  _shove_  your sister, Bell!” Mr. Pepper said, his voice raised.

 

“Lewis would have sided with me!”

 

Lewis heard a little catch of breath that could only have been Cherry’s. No one spoke for a few seconds, until Mr. Pepper said, “I don’t know what he would have done, Bell. But right now, Lewis isn’t….”

 

He didn’t get the chance to finish the sentence: Arthur pressed the doorbell, drowning him out. “Huh?” Mr. Pepper said, but he opened the door anyway, and then burst out with a loud, “Vivi and Arthur! What an… what a surprise.”

 

“Yeah, I’m surprised too.” Vivi waved. “Hi!”

 

“Yes, hello—listen, can you wait about five minutes? You came at a bad time—I just need to get  _these little_ _cherubs_ _—_ ” the tone of voice made the sarcasm even more apparent “—shipped off to school, and then you can come in.”

 

“I’m sorry, it can’t wait,” Vivi said.

 

“I don’t know about that.” Mr. Pepper forced a laugh. “Look, I dunno if you think we have a banshee in the rafters or what, but I can’t have these kids being late to school—not after it got cancelled with yesterday’s fiasco.”

 

“It’s about Lewis.”

 

The silence was thick, even palpable; Lewis felt it cloying on his manifested skin, and he rubbed his hands against each other as if to clean them. Eventually, Mr. Pepper managed to say, “Come right in.”

 

Vivi and Arthur entered. Lewis heard the group walk into the living room and sit down. “You haven’t, er….” Mr. Pepper cleared his throat and started again. “You haven’t even said Lewis’s name since the accident.”

 

“She did what?” Mrs. Pepper said. “But… Arthur told us you forgot about him.”

 

“You did?” Vivi asked, a rare note of uncertainty in her voice.

 

“I mean… well, you forgot.”

 

“Yes, I did forget.” Her voice was clear again. “But I remember now… well, I don’t actually. It’s complicated. But… listen. You remember how Lewis died a year ago? He was working a case with us?”

 

Again, Cherry’s breath caught. “Sorry,” Arthur mumbled.

 

“We don’t blame you,” Mrs. Pepper said, almost quickly enough to cut Arthur off.

 

“That’s not the point,” Vivi said. “You  _also_  know how a lot of our cases deal with ghosts?”

 

This was the Rubicon. Lewis pressed his fists against the ground as the room went silent again, until Mr. Pepper asked, in a tone too incredulous for hope, “What are you trying to say?”

 

“Lewis!” Vivi called, banging on the inside wall. “Lewis, get in here! So I don’t sound like a crazy person!”

 

Lewis pressed his manifested chin against his manifested chest, wishing he could take a deep breath. Then he stood from the bushes and walked through the open door, hunching a bit to keep his hair from brushing the frame. He walked as if the floor were covered in shattered glass for the few steps, until he was in sight of the living room. Then he stopped, as seven pairs of eyes pinned him in place.

 

Arthur was the first to look away, returning his gaze to his feet. Vivi smiled at him before looking at the five Peppers, who were all transfixed as if some magic had frozen them in place. His family.

 

“Hi, everyone,” he said. “I’m home.” He tried to raise his hand in a wave, but he couldn’t bring it up that high and only managed a half-shrug.

 

Cherry was the first to react: tears welled in her eyes as she let out another sob. Ginnie crossed herself, and Bell… Bell just stared. Mr. Pepper sagged back in his chair, but Mrs. Pepper stood up. “Lewis?” she said, with a voice that sounded like a knife was stabbing into her heart—or being pulled out. “You’re….”

 

“It’s me, Mom,” he said, stepping forward.

 

“Your eyes….”

 

Lewis closed them for several seconds. “I know.”

 

With a wordless cry she ran into him, her hair and face pressing against his chest as she sobbed. Cherry, then Ginnie, followed soon after, each one wrapping around one of his legs. “I knew you’d come back,” Cherry said in a muffled voice. “You weren’t really gone.”

 

“Lewis.” Finally, his father stood up, his arms slack at his sides. “I didn’t really expect….” He laughed for some reason. “And where have you been?”

 

“Hi, dad,” Lewis said, his arms limp as well. “Sorry I’m late.”

 

“It’s okay, Lewis,” he said. “Welcome—”

 

“ _You’re a jerk!_ ”

 

All eyes went to Bell, who’d just jumped off the couch. “I hate you!” she yelled, looking up at Lewis. Then she ran out of the room and up the stairs, and Lewis heard her door slam on the second floor. He stared up the stairs at her, as did Ginnie and Bell: his mom was still crying into his chest.

 

Vivi and Arthur, he noticed, had slipped out amidst the tumult. His gaze returned to his dad, who shrugged with a sad smile. “She’ll come around, I think.” Then he opened his arms and walked in. “Welcome home, Lewis. Welcome home. Welcome home….”

 

He pressed against his wife’s back, his hands just barely reaching his son’s sides. Lewis’s hands, which had hung limp from his shoulders, finally lifted up to surround his family.

 

* * *

 

Mr. Vaid was an aging man, dammit. He worked his eight hours a day—more than eight hours on most days, in fact—and he expected to be able to unwind in the evenings and  _sleep_  in the nights.

 

Evidently, not all people  _believed_  in this particular social contract, because on this night in October Mr. Vaid awoke to the sound of laughter, looked at his clock, and saw 3:27 AM.  _Happy_  and  _patient_  were not words that described him at that moment, especially not when he recognized the laughter to be coming from his large yard. Most likely another gaggle of drunken teenagers, the kind who’d decided that the whole world was their stomping grounds.

 

With an arthritic groan, he pulled himself from bed, pulled a shirt and pants from his wardrobe, and hobbled downstairs. His flashlight and shovel were next to the door as always, so he grabbed them and walked outside, wondering who in the hell would be cavorting around a graveyard at three in the morning.

 

The ruckus was easy to trace to its origin, but Mr. Vaid frowned as he approached, as his path wound around his acre-or-so of headstones. Now that he was closer, it sounded less like a group of teenagers and more like one extremely rowdy man. Even  _less_  reason for him to be disturbing people’s sleep!

 

Finally, he got close enough to see the offender, or at least his silhouette, laughing wildly and leaping from gravestone to gravestone. Mr. Vaid felt a twinge in his stomach—this was unusual balance for a drunkard—but he ignored it. “Hey!” he shouted, pointing his flashlight into the young man’s face.

 

The flashlight beam was enough to knock most drunks straight off their perches, but this one froze instead, then snapped his head to look directly down into the bulb. “That’s very bright,” he said, with a smile that Mr. Vaid wanted to hit with a shovel. “Aren’t you worried you might wake someone up?” His voice was deep and suspiciously sober.

 

“What—” Mr. Vaid gritted his teeth. “What are you doing in  _my_  graveyard?”

 

“Oh, just getting feeling myself out—or was that a rhetorical question? Hang on, though!” The young man leaped, and by the time Mr. Vaid had the light back on him, the young man was standing in front of him. He wore a pink waistcoat and ascot on his body. Neither had any drink spilled on them.

 

“You said  _your_  graveyard,” the young man continued, leaning against one of the gravestones. “That’s pretty possessive, isn’t it? I’m not sure you just  _live_  here, old man. Do you have anyone buried here? Maybe your mother, or your father?”

 

Mr. Vaid hefted the shovel over his shoulder, but the young man paid it no heed; he pushed off the gravestone with his hand, then leaned against another on the opposite side. “Brothers, sisters?” he continued. “Cousins? Or….” His smile widened, and he transferred his weight to the first gravestone once more, then back again like an inverted Newton’s cradle. “Oh, this is the jackpot. You’ve got  _kids_ here! How’d that feel, old man, having to bury them?”

 

Mr. Vaid’s jaw clenched. “That’s right,” the man said. “Let the hate  _flow_  through you.” He took a deep breath in through his nose.

 

“ _Go home_ ,” Mr. Vaid hissed through a clenched jaw.

 

The man laughed. “Oh, trust me!” he said, standing up straight.. “I feel  _very_  at home right where I am!”

 

“I said  _go home!_ ” Mr. Vaid raised his shovel and brought it down to strike the man’s head.

 

He caught it, and he changed. His waistcoat became a black burial suit, moldy and covered in dirt. His skin had been slightly tanned before, but the hand that grabbed the shovel was white as death, and its nails were elongated. His eyes had decayed almost to nothing, barely visible behind unkempt purple hair, but they stared at Mr. Vaid nevertheless.

 

He screamed and dropped the flashlight, leaving the corpse as a silhouette once more. “Oh,” it said, in a voice that had been dragged through gravel, “and what happened to all that delicious anger? Now there’s only fear?” It ripped the shovel from his hand and then grabbed his forearm; he gasped. “Are you afraid of me, old man?”

 

Mr. Vaid couldn’t speak as the corpse bent down to grab the flashlight, then pointed it up at its own face. Wires in the jaw screeched as its mouth opened slightly in a rictus grin, and it leaned in toward Mr. Vaid, so that he smelled death’s stale odor. “Well,” it rumbled, “I can live with that.”

 

Its head abruptly smashed forward, and Mr. Vaid’s vision went black.

 

* * *

 

The corpse’s owner let the poor old man fall unconscious to the ground, laughing to itself. The mortician had done an excellent job with the body; it still had a good amount of muscle mass, enough that he didn’t need to shamble around like some  _zombie_.

 

With a wave of his hand, the owner restored the corpse’s glamour, so that it appeared as it had in life; then, still holding the flashlight in his other hand, he made his way to the grave of origin. This body’s eyes weren’t at their best, and he needed the extra light to find out something very important.

 

Eventually he made his way back to the grave, in front of which lay a patch of disturbed earth. The owner crouched down and squinted, his flashlight lighting up the headstone. “ _Lewis… Hernandez,_ ” he read. Then, he shrugged. “That’ll work.”


	11. The First-Case Scenario—People Food

“Uh, Uncle Lance, hi!” Arthur leaned to the side of the Scaravan, his mouth stuck in a wincing grimace as he held the phone to his ear. “I didn’t wake you up, right?”

 

Vivi sat in the back seat, her legs hanging out the open door, and watched Arthur as his non-phone hand fidgeted. “Listen, uh, I need to ask you… you see, the thing is… uh, how do I say this—”

 

“Hey, Lance!” Vivi called out. “The van broke down!”

 

Arthur’s hand spasmed at the sudden noise, and the phone went flying; he ran and caught it before it hit the street. “Uh, yeah, sorry,” he said, slapping it back on his ear, “Vivi says hi. And yeah, the van broke down—sorry, sorry!” He stood back up straight, running his hand through his hair as sounds loud enough for Vivi to hear burst from the phone. “Look, it's—it’s a long story, it’s just… can you please tow it? We’re by the corner of Hazelton and Moore. I’m really sorry about this, just… thanks. See you soon.”

 

He pocketed the phone and took a deep breath. “I was getting to it,” he said.

 

“Less ‘getting to it’, more 'saying it’!” Vivi lowered herself from the seat—she’d have liked to jump, but with her bruises that was a dream deferred. “It’s not like he’s gonna be mad or anything—he’s your uncle! Heck, at this point he’s practically your dad, so what are you afraid of?”

 

“Yeah, I, uh, I guess….”

 

Once more his hand went through his hair. That probably meant he was lying about being reassured, or that his hair wasn’t vertical enough for his liking, or both, but Vivi was pretty sure it was the first option. She laid her hand on his shoulder and said, “Hey. Are you okay?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“If you’re not, can you please tell me?”

 

“Sure.”

 

She didn’t like the way he was staring away from her, but then he looked her way and smiled. She smiled back. “Thanks.

 

“And now  _I_ ,” she said, lifting her hand from his shoulder in a grand gesture as she spun around, “have gotta jet, or I am gonna be late for work. Which would be better than  _missing_  work like yesterday, but still.”

 

“Okay,” Arthur said from behind her. “I’ll just wait for Lance here.”

 

“You do that! See you later, navigator!”

 

“In a while… um….”

 

If Arthur came up with a word to replace 'crocodile’, she didn’t hear it; she was powerwalking as fast as she could manage, and not just for punctuality’s sake.  _Ibuprofen_ , she thought, as every part of her ached and throbbed.  _Why didn’t I take ibuprofen already?_

 

At her advanced pace it was still a good ten minute walk to her house: ten minutes of biting back her groans, of hoping she wouldn’t have to give up and call a cab. Which would be a  _real_  problem, because Bluffstad didn’t have cabs. However, at the end of those ten long minutes she stood triumphantly—well, wincingly, but with triumph in her heart—in front of her house, which was half of a duplex.  _I’m gonna take some ibuprofen, and then I’m gonna lie down for_ _a few_ _minutes, and then I’m gonna go to work._

 

She pulled out her phone and set an alarm for herself, telling her when to leave. Then she walked up the final few steps, trying to think of it as more of a victory lap and less of a final torment. She opened the door, and walked into her house….

 

And ducked for cover as a dog food bowl, with dog food in it, flew past her and smacked into the wall.

 

“ _There_  you are,” said an annoyed voice, and she looked down to see Mystery with his paw raised, having just thrown the bowl. “We need to talk.”

 

“Mystery! What the—” Vivi looked back at the wall just in time to see the bowl fall to the floor, leaving behind a glob of food.

 

“Oh, come on. It wouldn’t have hit you anyway.” Mystery smirked. “And, in point of fact, it’s exactly what we need to talk about. What is that on the wall?”

 

And now she was arguing with her pet dog. This was a great way to start the day. “It’s  _your dog food!_ ” she burst out, waving her pointer finger at it.

 

“And what am I?” he asked.

 

“Well, you’re a—”

 

“Am I a  _dog_?” Mystery raised both his paws in a “ _Well?_ ” gesture. Vivi didn’t respond. “Do you see the issue?” he asked.

 

This was cutting into her few minutes of rest. “You never had an issue with dog food before,” she said, walking into the kitchen and grabbing some paper towels and moistening a sponge.

 

“I was undercover before! And now I’m not, which means that I’m not choking that garbage down even _one_  more time. Vivi, I want  _people_  food.”

 

“Make it yourself.” With a grunt of discomfort, Vivi reached way above her head and grabbed the food glob from the wall with her paper towel, then wiped off the remainder with the sponge.

 

“No opposable thumbs!” Mystery called from behind her. She wiped down the wall and on the floor, then looked back around to see Mystery staring at her, his tails translucent behind him. “Look,” he said, “I’ll make this simple. Remember how I can give you super senses?”

 

“Yeah, that was pretty cool.” Vivi tossed the sponge into the sink and the paper towel into the trash. “So what, a bribe? Make you people food and you’ll give me super sight?”

 

“Make me some people food,  _or_  I’ll give you super  _smell_.” Mystery wrinkled his nose. “You do  _not_ want super smell. Trust me. You have  _no_  idea how much people  _stink_.”

 

“All right, fine.” She opened the fridge and crouched down—bending at the waist was out of the question—to see what was inside. “We have ham and cheese.”

 

“It’s a good start—and the  _farting_! Do you have any conception of how often people fart?” He groaned. “That’s half of why I don’t stretch out very often, you know. Saves me from most of my superior senses.”

 

Vivi pulled the ingredients from her fridge and two slices of bread from the breadbox. “So,” she said, as she spread the mayo, “you’re not a dog.”

 

“Haven’t we moved past that point in the conversation?”

 

“No, what I mean is, what  _are_  you exactly?” She struggled with the ham as it stuck to its fellows in its container. “I want to say 'kitsune’, but what with the whole super senses thing and… technopathy, you don’t exactly match the myth.”

 

“That wasn’t technopathy, that was energy transfer—speaking of which, speed up on the sandwich, please?” With a little hop, Mystery was up on the counter, watching her prepare his meal, and she didn’t have the willpower to tell him to get down. “You’re right,” he continued, “myths don’t always live up to reality… but you can call me a kitsune if you want, and it’ll  _almost_ —” he winked “—be true.”

 

“Sure, sure.” She finally managed to get the ham onto the bread. “Something else the myth says is that kitsunes gain one tail for every hundred years they’re alive. Is that true?”

 

Mystery leaned in. “Are you asking me how old I am?”

 

“Looks like it, doesn’t it?”

 

“Seven.”

 

He gave her a meaningful look, and winked. Then winked again. Then winked with the other eye for good measure. “You see how I’m winking?” he finally said, as she stared.

 

“Uh, yeah.” Her eye twitched.

 

“So you’re getting the subtext?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Indicating that when I  _say_  I’m seven….”

 

“I get it!” She slammed the bread atop the sandwich, then the sandwich’s plate on the table. “You’re really saying you’re seven hundred or something! Whatever!”

 

“Well, I’d  _hate_  for you to get the wrong impression. You know me—can’t tell a lie!” Mystery hopped up on a chair and smiled at his sandwich. “Oh, I’m gonna enjoy this.”

 

_No, that’s the problem._  Vivi planted her palm on her face.  _I don’t know you._

 

“You’re friggin’ welcome,” she said, and without looking back at him she walked from the room, grabbed her ibuprofen, and dry-swallowed the pills. Harnessing a final burst of energy, she ran to her room and jumped onto the bed, clothes and all.

 

_Beep-beep. Beep-beep._

 

That was her alarm. She groaned, grabbed a pillow from in front of her head, and pressed it against her ears.

 

“Vivi!” Mystery called from the other room. “You forgot the cheese!”

 

* * *

 

Arthur stood atop the van as it rode up into infinity.

 

Well, actually, it only looked like infinity at first glance. Leaning over the front, he looked forward—or, rather, upward—and saw some well-defined stars in infinity’s way, approaching rapidly. Thank god: he was worried StarCon would be a bust again, but it looked like they’d have visitors from all eight other boroughs. He’d been meaning to ask Betelgeuse how it managed a do that slick….

 

Then he made the mistake of looking down, or rather sideways, at a massive highway which did not have an edge so much as a horizon. Bands of metal striated diagonally across it, cutting through long segments of uneven brown: before long he’d passed the metal, and it was all brown highway that set the van a-rattling. Someone really needed to repave this thing.

 

_If I’m going up,_  he thought,  _then how is the van staying on this—_

 

The van fell away and was gone in an instant.  _Oh._  An instant later, he was falling too, in that slow, inexorable way that was typical with… something or other.  _Bye, stars._  He brought up his left hand to wave to them, and it moved as sluggishly as if through syrup.  _Looks like_ _StarCon will have to wait until next year._ _Such a shame,_  he mused,  _there was gonna be a star pit and everything, too._

 

He turned around and saw what he was falling through: the Halo of Bluffstads from the other day. He flew across mountain after mountain, seeing every possibility represented, even the ones without hats.

 

_That one_ , he decided, and he descended to the reality where everyone was shorter than him. He lounged in his golden throne, up on a high shelf that short people couldn’t reach (unless they got a stool or something; he made a mental note to outlaw stools). Vivi and Mystery sulked up at his exalted stature—

 

But wait! There was a bearded rebel, even shorter than the rest, climbing a ladder to dethrone him! _Strike him down_ _with all your tallness_ _!_  screamed a voice in his head, and Arthur raised his silver scepter. “ _Begone_ , short person.”

 

His throne shook as if an earthquake had struck it—Arthur was being shaken roughly, and grass was pressing against his back. He opened his eyes and saw a dark orange beard and bushy brown brows, bordering the unimpressed face of his Uncle Lance. “Begone, short person?” he said, a hint of incredulity making it past his beard.

 

“Uncle Lance?” Arthur mumbled, as consciousness came back to him with about as much speed as if it were being sent through dialup. His prosthetic was poking Lance’s cheek; he let it fall.

 

“I’ll let the 'short person’ comment go.” Lance moved away from Arthur and stood up straight, not that it made much difference. “But only because you look like hell. You’d better get yourself up.”

 

Arthur sat up and stood, brushing the dirt off his back. He noticed the van to his right, and memory returned to him: he’d been lying in the grass, trying to find something to rhyme with “crocodile”. The last thing he remembered thinking, before falling asleep, was that he wasn’t going to fall asleep. Funny how that worked out.

 

“Jee- _zus_ ,” Lance said, his attention now on the van. “I haven’t seen it this bad since we found it. And it was upside-down in a ditch, if you don’t remember.”

 

What had he dreamed about, anyway? Something about… a star pit, and being king over the short people. He was pretty sure that was the important part.

 

Lance jumped up on the bumper and opened the hood, and received a faceful of red smoke for his trouble. “What the hell,” he coughed, “did you do to the engine?”

 

“It wasn’t me, exactly,” Arthur said, standing beside his uncle as they both looked into the horror show that lay beneath the hood.

 

“Did you and your friends sacrifice a goat to make this thing run faster? Because trust me—” Lance coughed again, then wiped the red soot from his face “—that just creates more problems than it solves, in the long run.”

 

Arthur didn’t respond, instead fixing his attention on where little pieces of plastic—and some bigger pieces—had melted from the previous day’s strain. The more he looked, the more he realized how much of a miracle it was that the van had run at all today, and the more he got a sickness in the pit of his stomach.  _Not the van, too._

 

“That was a joke, Arthur.” Lance jostled his shoulder. “You still remember what those are, right?”

 

“Oh, right.” Arthur forced a chuckle.

 

“No, no, don’t laugh now. That just makes it worse.” Lance hopped to the ground and glanced down the length of the van. “How the hell did you get all that blood on there?”

 

“Oh, that?” Arthur shrugged. “Long story. I kinda stopped noticing it after a while. Weird what you get used to.”

 

“That is disgusting.”

 

“You don’t think it adds a… certain flair?” Arthur asked, smiling. “Come on… blood-covered van. Badass with a capital B?”

 

“More like biohazard.” Lance shook his head as he kept walking back to his tow truck, an old-fashioned brown clunker which he’d parked behind the van. “Help me hook the old thing up, but it’s in pretty bad shape. I don’t know whether to fix it, or take it out back and shoot it.”

 

Arthur chuckled. “That was a joke too, right?”  
  


“Sure, tell yourself that.”

 

The chuckles died away as Arthur helped his uncle to hitch up the van. It didn’t take long: this wasn’t the first time the two had towed a car, or even this car. Within five minutes, the van was securely attached, and Arthur was riding shotgun as Lance throttled the truck’s engine from atop a stack of phonebooks. Carefully they set on their way back toward Kingsmen Mechanics.

 

Arthur, for his part, leaned against the window with one arm under his chin, lost in thought. Then he sat up straight and burst out with, “Bibliophile!”

 

“What?”

 

“Oh, uh, never mind. Wait,” Arthur said, as another thought struck him from the blue, “how did you know that green stuff on the van is blood?”

 

Lance chuckled. “Hold that thought.”

 

They arrived at Kingsmen Mechanics, right next to Arthur’s house. Lance clicked a button in the truck, and the garage door opened: then, with practiced precision, he backed the truck inside, and the van with it.

 

“So,” Lance asked, as he stepped down from the truck, “the reason I know that green stuff is blood is because yesterday, I did something that would make a conservationist very upset.”

 

“Huh?” Arthur walked around the driver’s side of the truck, then jumped nearly into the ceiling. “Jesus F—”

 

In the garage’s other bay was not a car but a carcass: one of the massive insects that had crawled into town from an alternate reality the previous day. Its head—or at least its front end—was smashed in and covered in gelled green blood. Arthur took deep breaths, his hand clutching his shirt, thinking of a happier time when alternate universe monsters did not end up in his uncle’s garage.

 

“Yep,” Lance said, a note of pride in his voice. “Can’t be too many of those things skittering around, but one of them happened to skitter into my garage, so… 'pologies to PETA.”

 

“Wow.” Arthur chuckled. “I guess it was no match for your pro wrestling strength.”

 

Lance glared up at him. “I brained it with a wrench.” He nodded toward the wall, upon which hung a huge wrench with one end stained green. “How many times do I have to tell you that I ain’t a wrestler?”

 

“You’re wearing a wrestling belt!”

 

Lance glanced down at his waist, around which was a thick brown belt with a golden oval on its front. “That’s a novelty belt! It just happens to be my size.”

 

“Suuuuuure.”

 

“Damned right you’re sure. Now help me move this ugly thing,” Lance said, positioning himself behind the monster and planting his feet. “It’s stinking up the joint, and it’s too heavy for just me and my _wrestling strength_.”

 

Suppressing a shiver, Arthur got beside his uncle and pressed his hands against the monster’s exoskeleton. He grit his teeth as the blood stuck to his hand.  _It’s just car oil_ , he told himself.  _Oil of no particular color._

 

“So,” Lance grunted, as they maneuvered the corpse out the door and around the garage, “I’m guessing you had an interesting time of it yesterday as well.”

 

“Eh?” Arthur looked away from his uncle and into the yard behind Kingsmen Mechanics. There were a few truly unfixable clunkers back there, but in the middle of the yard was a newly-dug hole. They pushed the corpse toward it.

 

“You’ve cut your arm. You know,” Lance said, as Arthur glanced down at his unwounded right arm, “the one that’s difficult to cut.” Taking the hint, Arthur looked at his prosthetic instead, seeing the notch in the metal.

 

“Not to mention—” With a final heave, Arthur and Lance pushed the body into the hole. Lance wiped his brow, then said, “Not to mention your other hand looks like you held it on a belt sander. In fact, you should probably wash that.”

 

Arthur held up his hand, the one he’d scraped against the road the other day; much of the palm was still red, and what wasn’t was a gross, scabby mess.

 

“It’s all right,” Lance said, and clapped Arthur on the back. “You don’t have to tell me right away. But if it’s okay with you, I’d like for you to tell me sooner rather than later, okay? Because I’m guessing you’ve got one helluva story for me.”

 

Arthur smiled down at him. “Thanks, Uncle Lance.”

 

“Welcome. Seriously, though.” Lance pointed at the garage. “Wash your hands. You wanna get some sort of alien tetanus?”

 

* * *

 

Lewis looked down as a hand was placed on his knee. “I know how you did it,” Cherry said.

 

“Eh?” Lewis asked.

 

He was sitting in the dining room. His parents were in the kitchen on the phone, cancelling anything and everything they had planned that day. Lewis heard his father stammering to the school about “whatever the opposite of a family emergency is”, while his mother was on the phone with… also the school, if he was hearing correctly. “No, honey,” his father said, “ _I’m_  calling the school,  _you_  call the restaurant!”

 

“I came up with an idea,” Cherry said, and before Lewis had his attention back on her she’d run upstairs. “Just a sec!” she yelled from the second floor.

 

“Oh, no….” Ginnie shook her head.

 

“What, 'oh no’?”

 

“Nevermind. Um….”

 

He forced aside worries about his other two sisters and tried to focus on her. The last time he’d sat in this room, her head and shoulders had only just peeked above his knees. Now she leaned forward, easily resting her elbows on his lap, staring up into his eyes—that was to say, into his black sockets with pink rings in them. He blinked (needlessly; sockets didn’t dry out) and looked away.

 

“This is weird, right?” she finally said.

 

“Eh?” Lewis wasn’t sure why he was asking for clarification: it  _was_  weird.

 

“I prayed you’d come back. Every night. I didn’t forget, I wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget. That’s the rules, isn’t it?” she asked, her eyes shining. “If you’re a good enough person and you look out for your family and you ask hard enough, then you get what you want?”

 

Lewis shrugged.

 

“But I prayed you’d come back to  _life_ , and….” She wiped her eyes. “Father Pink always says God works in mysterious ways, but… this is weird.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I’m glad it worked at all, though.” She smiled up at him. “We all really missed you, big brother.”

 

Lewis leaned forward and briefly wrapped his arms around her, and she reciprocated with her arms around his legs. “Thanks,” he said.

 

“Oh, come now, we can’t  _both_  be calling the restaurant!” Mr. Pepper yelled from the other room.

 

Ginnie and Lewis laughed. “So how are the other two doing?” Lewis asked, releasing Ginnie from his arms.

 

“Bell’s….” Ginnie sighed. “She’s a disruptive influence. I overheard one of the teachers. And Cherry… oh! I need to tell you,” she said, practically interrupting herself. “Cherry doesn’t get—”

 

“Found it!” yelled Cherry from up the stairs. Lewis heard the stomping of her feet like a salvo of guns, and then she was downstairs with a huge piece of posterboard, almost too large for her to hold. “Presenting Lewis’s Master Plan—”

 

Cherry noticed Ginnie leaning on Lewis’s lap, and she stopped mid-word. Almost unconsciously she pulled the paper closer to her body, turning ever so slightly away from her sister.

 

Lewis leaned forward. “Cherry, do you want to show this to just me?”

 

“No, no, I’m a good listener!” Ginnie said, shaking her head ferociously.

 

Cherry looked at her for a moment, then unfolded the posterboard, so that he couldn’t see her behind it except for her legs. “So, um… this is how I think you did it.”

 

Lewis noticed the stick figure first—well, it was mostly a stick figure, except for a rather triangular upper chest and a mess of purple on top of the head. This, he supposed, had to be him. He seemed to be standing at the edge of some sort of—

 

“So this is where you got wired up,” Cherry said, her little hand poking over the top of the paper to a thin line that ran over Lewis’s head. “So when you fell, instead of… you went down the zipline to the secret tunnel.”

 

Loud splintering retorts erupted beneath Lewis. He looked down and saw his hands clutching his chair so hard they shook; when he opened them, shreds of wood fell to the carpet from his fists.

 

“And—and then the second part of the plan—Lewis?” Cherry dropped her paper at the sound. “What was that?”

 

_Let her finish._  “Nothing,” he forced out. “Keep going.”

 

“Okay! So the second part of the plan is this—” She pointed to a point below the “secret tunnel”, where two stick figures were hauling a third. “Those guys were your secret team. They threw the fake body down and made the splooshy guts go everywhere. And then you laid low for a year.”

 

He resisted the urge to correct her on what part of himself, exactly, had gone everywhere. “Why would I need to lay low, Cherry?” His voice came out in exact measures; it felt like he was meting out the words through a dam, behind which lay a torrential river.

 

“The bad guys!” Cherry threw her hands up, a huge grin on her face. The posterboard fell flat behind her as she let go. “The bad guys you were fighting off before you went to live with Mom and Dad! They must have found you, and you needed to take a year and be sneaky with your secret team… until you could beat the bad guys once and for all!”

 

Not every splinter had fallen from Lewis’s hands. He felt them dig into his palm as it clenched tight once more. If he’d been holding the chair, it would have snapped in half.

 

“And that’s why you’re back!” Cherry exclaimed, her arms wide and ebullient. Then, at once, she shrunk inward again, rubbing her index fingers together and looking at his knees. “Um, I think. And maybe you got some eye disease or something and that’s why they’re black… I haven’t figured that part out yet. So….” She looked up at him. “Did I get it right?”

 

“I….” He stood with a jolt, and his chair rocketed back and crashed into the wall behind him. “Cherry,” he said, staring into her hopeful eyes, “there’s something you need to….”

 

A small hand was waving in front of him, and he looked down to see that it was Ginnie’s. “Let me,” she said. “Cherry, that’s an interesting idea, but it’s wrong.”

 

Cherry took a step backward. “What?”

 

“Ginnie,” Lewis said, “please, let me—”

 

“No,” she interjected, smiling toothily at him, “no, no, it’s fine! I’m good at this. Now, Cherry,” she continued, in what she must have thought was a gentle tone, “Your theory is wrong, because Lewis died a year ago in that cave, and this is him as a ghost. Do you get it now?”

 

Ginnie smiled encouragingly at Cherry, and Cherry burst into tears. She turned around and ran for the stairs, her sobs growing louder with each step.

 

“Wait, stop!” Ginnie groaned and ran after her. “Why can’t you tell I’m  _good at this_?”

 

“All done!”

 

Mr. Pepper ran into the room and grabbed Lewis in what would probably have been a bone-cracking hug, if his bones worked that way anymore. Mrs. Pepper was a few seconds behind him with her hug, and though it did not have her husband’s strength, there was a comforting intensity to it.

 

After what could have been as much as a minute, Mr. Pepper pulled away. “We’ve cancelled everything. Every appointment, every obligation. Today we’re going to just going to spend time together as a family—as a  _whole_  family.” He laughed, then glanced at the stairs. “Speaking of which, where did your sisters go?”

 

“Erm….” Lewis sighed as his parents led him back to the living room. “Upstairs.”

 

“We’ll have to get them down,” Mrs. Pepper said, smiling. “Family lunch.”

 

The three of them sat down, Lewis’s parents on one couch and him on the other, which lay at a right angle to the first. He looked at them, and they looked at him, and said… nothing at all. They just looked.

 

Mrs. Pepper reached out and laid her hand on Lewis’s knee. She gripped it tight, as if to prove to herself it was real. He laid his hand on hers and gripped just the same. And still they just looked at each other. He liked this looking.

 

“So!” Mr. Pepper’s voice started up with all the certainty of some rusty piece of machinery, like he hadn’t primed it enough. “So, er… Lewis! Are you… hungry?”

 

Before Lewis could answer, Mr. Pepper shook his head. “You’re a ghost! Ghosts don’t eat people food, what am I saying? Um… what have you been up to in the past… year? God,” he chuckled, planting his face in one of his hands and shaking his head, “what are you supposed to say?”

 

“Oh, um….” Lewis squinted as he searched his memories and found… nothing concrete, much. He decided to go further back. “Remember how I had mononucleosis when I was fifteen?”

 

Mrs. Pepper smiled. “You were so worried that you’d fall behind in school.”

 

“I  _did_  start later than most.” Lewis shrugged slightly. “And I was bedridden for all those weeks. Not even enough energy to read a book. Just staring up at the ceiling until I hallucinated, losing track of what day it was….”

 

He noticed he was staring up at the ceiling now. With a mental note to keep better track of what he was doing, he looked back down at his parents. “Being a ghost… was a little like that, for a long time. But… less pain, and I lost track of more….”

 

_Arthur._  He shuddered: concrete things were coming back now.

 

“I lost track of more things than….”

 

_Arthur. Murderer, with a smile slapped on his face and a hand against your chest. Judas Iscariot himself, but without the decency to hang._

 

“I lost….”

 

_Save Vivi. Have to save Vivi from the demon._

 

He was looking through the window of his mansion, one hand raised, and purple sparks danced around the van and dove into its vitals, knocking it out for the moment. Beautiful angel that she was, Vivi could never miss a chance like this, and her parasite would have to come as well, right into the fright of his life.

 

_The fright of his death._

 

Lewis gasped, and he was looking at his family, and he was shaking. “Lewis,” his mother was saying, leaning toward him, her grip on his knee becoming painful. “Lewis, what’s wrong?”

 

“Your eyes went all pink for a moment,” his father said, half-standing in his seat. “Lewis, does that mean you’re not okay?”

 

“Dad… Mom, I….”

 

_Arthur, running for his life—Arthur, standing horrified in the hallway, too scared to move—Arthur lying down and giving up, waiting for the fire to swallow him whole._

 

And Lewis’s parents wanted to know if Lewis was okay.

 

Lewis sobbed. He couldn’t cry anymore, but he could do this. “I did something bad,” he whimpered, collapsing forward under the weight of his ghost body, as if he only had his twelve-year-old muscles to support it. “Mom, Dad, I did something  _awful_.”

 

“Lewis?” His father rushed around the coffee table to sit beside Lewis. “Lewis, please, it’s okay. What happened?”

 

“I can't—I can’t.” He locked gazes with his father. “ _Dios perdoname_ , I just—”

 

“Ssh,” his mother whispered, rubbing his knee. “Ssh, Lewis, it’s okay.”

 

“Just tell us,” Mr. Pepper said, getting his arm over Lewis’s shoulder, if only just. “Just tell us, and we’ll listen.”

 

Lewis looked at him, then at her, and then buried his face in his hands again. Of course they’d listen, even if he didn’t deserve it. They were his family.


	12. The First-Case Scenario—Stern Fatherly Disapproval

_Number three: “Did you stay up late chasing fictional monsters again?”_

 

The good news was, the painkillers seemed to be working: with each minute Vivi walked, more of the ache subsided, and she was certain she’d be able to make it to her job. The bad news was, she’d be able to make it to her job.

 

 _Number two: “You need to spend more time in the real world.”_  She shrugged as she walked: maybe it would be in the other order. After all, her boss wasn’t  _that_  predictable… she hoped.

 

At last, she was in front of Tome Tomb, the bookstore where she worked. When she’d first heard about the place, she’d expected it to look magical, or at the very least dramatic. She’d expected columns, marble— _something_  to fit the theme.

 

It had been a few years since she’d started working there, and she’d memorized every detail of the store’s facade—there weren’t many—and yet, somehow, it still managed to disappoint her every time she looked at it. The outer wall was plain and white, with “Tome Tomb” painted across the top in a plain black font that looked better suited to a laundromat. Two windows in the front displayed the best among the wares, or at least what her boss  _thought of_  as the best: for some godforsaken reason, this group included such page-turners as “101 Halal Vegan Recipes” and “An Encyclopedia of the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict, Volume 1”. No wonder business was always slow.

 

 _Tome Tomb_ , Vivi thought,  _the place where books go to die. And fun._  Vivi pulled out her phone to check the time, groaned, then repocketed it and pushed open the door.  _And the first thing Duet is going to say to me is…._

 

“You’re late,” Duet said from the seat behind the store’s desk and counter.

 

 _Got the screw right in the drive._  “By one minute,” she grumbled, closing the door behind her. “Less.”

 

“I suppose I could let it slide.” Duet slid what looked like spreadsheets off the desk and into a manila folder, then tucked the folder into a drawer. “Except for your unexplained absence yesterday.” He watched her through his hood— _their_  hood, Vivi corrected herself—with an expression of… in fact, it didn’t deserve to be called an expression at all, because it wasn’t  _expressing_  anything.

 

Vivi forced out a laugh. “Unexplained? That’s a hoot and three quarters. You can’t think of  _any_  reason I might not have shown up?” She spread her hands wide, then brought them together in a great curve, suggesting the shape of a giant ring. “ _Any_  reason at all?”

 

“Did you stay up late chasing fictional monsters again?” Duet sighed through their nose. “You need to spend more time in the real world.”

 

Vivi blinked.  _Okay. Didn’t expect exact words._  “The town!” she blurted. “By which I mean the towns! Plural! They cancelled school for it, it was on the news, did you not  _see_  that?”

 

“I saw it. And I must say—” Duet stood, then reached up and adjusted their hood so that the slit covered more of the left half of their face “—it was quite the special effect. I was almost convinced.”

 

Vivi smacked herself on the forehead. “I  _went_  into the echoes. I was literally there, in the past. That  _is_ the real world, bucko.”

 

“Come now, Vivi. Do I look like the kind of person who’d believe that?”

 

She resisted the urge to point out Duet’s yellow and magenta hair poking out from behind the hood, which itself bore two stripes in colors that matched the hair. She went without mentioning the necklace that ended in what looked like a blue Pokéball, draped over a dark shawl that covered the shoulders of their black and white robe. Her peace was kept about the two unnecessary belts that would make any Final Fantasy character proud, and she remained silent on the ridiculous baby blue boots that not even  _she_  could bring herself to wear, even with the color.

 

In other words, with great effort, she managed to avoid telling Duet that the answer to their question was a resounding “ _Yes!_ ”

 

She turned away as Duet continued, “In any event, thanks to your absence, Chloe and I had to hold the shop at two-thirds personpower.”

 

“Did you two manage to cope with all the  _crowds_  who came in here?” Vivi dragged her finger down one of the book spines, leaving a dust bunny on her skin.

 

“That’s beside the point. You don’t get to skip out on work without a notice. Not unless there’s a real emergency.”

 

She glared back at them, noticing that finally their features displayed a hint of emotion: namely, a slanted eyebrow of disapproval. Her eye twitched.  _My boyfriend came back from the dead and tried to murder my best friend yesterday, except I didn’t know I had a boyfriend because he’d accidentally removed my memories with his ghost powers,_ _and my best friend had been lying to me for a year to try to keep me “happy”, and also my dog is a close approximation of a kitsune who can talk and chose this morning to become a picky eater. Does that count as a real damn emergency?_

 

“Look,” she said, working to keep her voice even, “take it out of my paycheck, and then I’d like to stop talking about this. I have a  _lot_  on my mind right now, okay?”

 

“Hmm….” Duet walked close to her and rested his—er,  _their—_ thumb and index fingertips on her forehead. It took a long second for her to flinch away, stunned as she was by the personal space violation. “Yes,” they said, letting their hand drop with a solemn expression on their face, “I suppose you do.”

 

“What the alfalfa was—” Vivi stopped herself mid-question; she’d long since learned that expecting her boss to act like a normal person was like asking water to flow uphill. Actually, she’d once seen a YouTube video of that….

 

“So, let’s get to work.” Duet turned around, bent over, and pulled a large cardboard box from beneath the desk. “These arrived last night. I need you to sort these and get them shelved properly.”

 

“All righty. Scissors, where?” She held out her hand, and when Duet placed a pair of scissors into it, she cut open the packing tape that sealed the box. “Let’s see if there’s any hidden treasures….” She opened the flaps, revealing the book at the top of the package:  _The Baking Powder Controversy._

 

So much for hidden treasures. “Volume  _one_?” she read out loud in horror. The ones beneath it weren’t any better. “ _Database Issues in Geographic Information Systems… When Mother Lets Us Make Paper Box Furniture…._ ” She shivered involuntarily, then pulled away the moldering old book to reveal something much more colorful beneath. For a moment she dared to hope—but then she recognized it as one of Chloe’s mangas, titled “Ogre Slayer”. She had no clue why Duet indulged Chloe by buying this stuff—but then again, it was probably the most saleable thing in the box.

 

She moved on. “ _Bowling is for Me…_   _Pi to Five Million Places—_ oh my Gandhi, really?” She opened that one up and got a faceful of digits for her trouble. “I don’t know what I expected.  _1973 Annual Report on Utility and Carrier Regulation…._ ”

 

“Oh,  _there_  it is,” Duet said. She looked up to see them holding out their hand. “I’ve been meaning to read that. Do you mind…?”

 

Vivi, her jaw slack, passed them the massive volume. Without hesitation they took it, sat behind the desk, kicked their feet up, and began to read. Not for the first time, she wondered how it was that Duet had managed to become the most mundane and bizarre person on the planet all at once.

 

She excavated the rest of the volumes one by one, becoming desensitized to their utter boredom as she went. “ _Reusing Old Graves: A Report on Popular British Attitudes…. Basic Wiccan Ethics: Avoiding a Perilous Path…. Why Cats Paint: A Theory of—_ wait, what?” She checked the previous title again, then looked up at Duet. “You got a book about  _Wicca_?”

 

But Duet didn’t hear her, engrossed as he was—as  _they were_ —in the  _Report_. Vivi sighed, then pulled the last few books from the box and began shelving.  _Ogre Slayer_  was easiest; it went in the back with all the other manga. Then the book about pi went in the math section,  _Database Issues_  went with the other books about organization, and  _Basic Wiccan Ethics_ ….

 

Near the manga shelf in the back, Duet had labeled one bookcase as  _Curiosities_ , or as anyone else would call it,  _The Only Interesting Books in the Store_. Here were works of fiction and non-boring non-fiction, like accounts of actually interesting wars (as opposed to treatises on the role of the textile industry in those wars). To Duet’s credit, they actually had the Lord of the Rings trilogy and the Harry Potter series, as well as a few other gems—but only a few; the bookcase was only as large as a door.

 

 _Exactly_  as large as a door, in fact. As Vivi made room for  _Basic Wiccan Ethics_ , she spied a hardbound copy of  _Through the Looking Glass_ : massive, sticking out from the rest of the books, and placed roughly where a doorknob would be if the bookcase  _were_  a door. She took a deep breath, then pulled on the spine….

 

The book fell out and dropped to the floor with a deadened  _thud_. Vivi looked at the wood behind where it had been, and saw it was smooth.

 

With a sigh she replaced the book and got back to reshelving. She’d really believed, when Duet had first hired her, that there  _had_  to be something more to the man—er, person—but time and effort had proved her wrong. Now, two years of normalcy later, she didn’t know why in Purgatory’s name she still harbored any hope that Tome Tomb  _was_  a place of magic and mystery.

 

Besides—and she stopped mid-step when she caught herself thinking this—maybe, for once, a little bit of normalcy was what she needed.

 

* * *

 

“Art?” Lance said.

 

Arthur lay beneath a car that had come in the previous night—a boring minivan whose owner had shown more enthusiasm than car know-how, when she’d tried to change the oil and instead emptied the coolant. And then put oil where the coolant was supposed to be. Really, it was a wonder that the car hadn’t exploded before Lance towed it.

 

“Arthur?”

 

Shame: it was such a simple operation. Simple was nice. Get receptacle for oil. Drain oil. Change filter. Add new oil—

 

“Arthur!”

 

Arthur sighed, then slid himself from under the car. “Sorry, Lance. In the middle of something.”

 

“It’s a damn oil change, Arthur, it can wait.” Lance, standing over him, helped pull Arthur to his feet. “I know I said you didn’t have to tell me about… stuff, not until you’re ready. Still don’t. But….” Lance walked to the van and banged its front, dislodging a few final wisps of red smoke. “If you could let slip a few details about what in God’s name you put this van through, we might have a hope of fixing it.”

 

“In a bit, okay?” Arthur’s hand went through his hair before he remembered that it had oil on it from the cap; he shrugged and let it lie in his hair as words spilled from his mouth. “I need to finish this change, and then clean out the coolant on that mini, and who knows what else the owner’s put it through—”

 

“Don’t you care about having a van? How the heck are you gonna get that concoction you order from outta town—”

 

“Surf’s Up Surprise, and it’s a delicacy—”

 

“—if you don’t have the van? And I’m not letting you borrow my truck.”

 

Arthur shrugged. “Then I’ll go without. I really gotta get back to Ms. Bamberg’s car now, she really did a number on it. I mean, seriously, of all the things to mess up, she put  _oil_  in the  _coolant_  system!” He chuckled. Good. Uncle Lance didn’t need to hear about what had happened to the van: it would ruin his day.

 

“ _She_  did a number?” Lance shook his head. “There’s things broken under that hood that I’ve ain’t seen broken before! Art, if we don’t start fixing this thing now, I can’t guarantee it’ll ever work again. Just tell me what happened with the van.”

 

The remainder of the workshop seemed immensely interesting all of a sudden, and Arthur looked around it, careful not to look down and in front of himself. Hoisted up close to the ceiling was a gorgeous old Ford Mustang waiting for a tune-up—Arthur made a mental note of what she needed: new belts, checking all the hoses and fluids, replacing the brakes, and more. His eyes traced a wall of tools to another car, this one propped up without its wheels; they’d been damaged in an accident, and it needed a new set.

 

_Deflect. Avoid. Excellent strategy. Worked out so well for you this past year, eh?_

 

“Aw, jeez, Arthur, not even one thing?” Lance grunted, and then, not quite under his breath, said, “Christ, it’s like with that poor Lewis kid all over again….”

 

Arthur’s body shook. It took him a moment to realize he had laughed—possibly. As more breaths forced their way from his body, they might have sounded like laughter upon exit, but they hurt like whooping coughs on the way out. He bent over and sat on the ground, almost collapsing, struggling to take a breath in.

 

“Crap—Arthur?” Lance was beside him, his arms around Arthur’s shoulders. “Don’t cry, Art, for God’s sake don’t cry, I don’t know how to  _help_  you when you’re crying—”

 

Arthur felt tears in his eyes, and squeezed them shut. His uncle didn’t need the aggravation. Over half a minute, maybe more, the bitter laughter worked its way out of his lungs, until he could talk again. “Sorry,” he gasped.

 

“It  _is_  a hell of a story, isn’t it.” Lance rubbed his forehead. “Look, just tell me one thing. Just nod or shake your head. What happened to the van… it was supernormal, wasn’t it?”

 

Arthur heaved a few deep breaths, as if steadying himself before diving into deep water, then nodded.

 

The hands on his shoulders squeezed tight for a moment, and then Lance threw his hands in the air and stepped away. “Dammit, was it Vivi again?”

 

“Wha—”

 

“Is that why your hand’s all ripped up?” Lance grabbed a stool from the side of the room and slammed it in front of the van, then stood on the stool and shoved his head and shoulders beneath the hood. “Or should I be happy that you didn’t lose another arm?”

 

“Are you—are you  _angry_  at Vivi?” Arthur had to take a moment to process this. “Have you  _been_  angry at Vivi?”

 

“Maybe I am!  _Maybe_  I have!” Lance ’s upper body torqued a few times: he seemed to be trying to untwist a bolt by hand.

 

“You’ve never mentioned it before.”

 

“Maybe I kept it a secret!” Lance panted for a few seconds, then pulled himself out from the hood, stepped off the stool, and crossed the workshop to get a wrench. “I just don’t get why you hang out with her.”

 

“Because….” Arthur squinted.  _I have to explain this? It’s obvious._  “Because she’s my friend? My best friend?”

 

“ _Friend?_ ” Lance yanked a wrench off the wall. “Arthur, I have buddies. You know what we do? We go out and have a good time at the bar, swap stories. It’s fun. When the hell was the last time your best friend was fun to be around?”

 

Arthur opened his mouth to explain how that wasn’t the point—how it was a question of her needing him, not of fun—but the little voice in his head made him hesitate.  _Lewis is back, remember? Can you honestly say she still needs you?_

 

The two of them stared at each other for a long few seconds, until Arthur noticed the infinitesimal sound of spillage, and looked back at the minivan he’d been working on, beneath which a pool of oil was growing. Somehow it had overfilled its container.

 

With a mental curse, Arthur ran to grab another reservoir into which to drain the oil. Lance didn’t press the point as he swapped the two out, and the two of them went back to working in silence. The argument fell away as if it had never happened.

 

_Deflect. Avoid. Excellent strategy._

 

Arthur grunted.  _Shut up, brain._

 

* * *

 

Mr. Pepper’s face was stone. He stared at Lewis for many seconds, taking deep, even breaths, while Mrs. Pepper held his hand. Lewis didn’t know whether it was to comfort or restrain him.

 

At length, he spoke. “I’m going to repeat what you’ve just said. Just to make very sure I’ve….” He waved one of his hands in mid-air in front of himself, as if to try to catch the right word as it buzzed around his brain.

 

“Understood,” Mrs. Pepper said.

 

“Just to make sure I’ve  _understood_  it.” Mr. Pepper took another breath, then leaned forward. “So, one year and… two days ago, you went into a cave with Vivi and Arthur. A cave with an evil spirit in it, who possessed Arthur and forced him to… push you.”

 

“Yes,” Lewis said, drawing away from his father.

 

“But you didn’t know that. You assumed, instead, that your best friend, for  _no reason at all_ , had suddenly decided to murder you.”

 

Mr. Pepper’s hand, the one not being held by his wife, spasmed. Before Lewis could respond, he continued, “And then you came back as a ghost. And instead of trying to find out the truth, you tried to _MURDER HIM!_ ”

 

The stony expression on his face disappeared as if it had been dynamited. He stood in an instant, yanking his hand from his wife’s grip, his legs slamming into the coffee table. “You tried to  _burn him alive!_ ” he yelled, right into Lewis’s face. “Is  _THAT_  what you’re telling me?”

 

“I—he pushed me—I thought—” Lewis spluttered.  
  


“You thought! Oh, you  _thought!_  I—you—” Mr. Pepper grabbed fistfuls of his own hair and pulled. “God _damn_  it, Lewis, did I raise you or not? Did  _she_  raise you or not?” he yelled, gesticulating at his wife so wildly that he almost smacked her in the face. “So where did you learn that  _killing people_  was how you solved your problems? Because you  _didn’t learn it from us!_ ” The words seemed to echo through the house.

 

“ _Papá_ ,” Lewis said, “ _lo siento_ —”

 

“I hope so! You—sorry—” Mr. Pepper heaved a deep breath in, then said, “ _Bye._ ”

 

Lewis’s eyes widened—was he getting kicked out of the house?—but a moment later he saw that it was Mr. Pepper who was walking to the door with quick, jerky steps. “Dad?” he asked. “Where are you—”

 

“ _A walk!_ ” Mr. Pepper’s hands shook so hard he couldn’t grab the key to turn it in the lock. “I’m going for a walk! Because that’s what we do in this house when we get angry, we go on  _walks!_  And we  _don’t_ take it out on the  _PEOPLE we LOVE!_ ”

 

Finally he unlocked the door and yanked it open. By the time it had slammed against the wall, he was already through the doorway. Lewis shook as the silence settled upon him once more, holding his forehead in his hands.  _I can’t tell them. I can never tell them._

 

“He still loves you, you know.”

 

Lewis looked up at his mother, whose expression was as calm as he’d ever seen it. “You think?” he asked, his voice breaking.

 

“He just said.” She smiled for no more than a moment. “Even though he’s angry at you.”

 

“Are you angry at me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Lewis wondered how he was sobbing if he didn’t even breathe anymore. “Mom, I’m so sorry,” he managed, as his body shook.

 

“Have you told Arthur that you’re sorry?”

 

“Yeah, Vivi made me apologize.” Lewis wiped his face on instinct.

 

“Are you still angry at him?”

 

Lewis sat up straighter at the unexpected question. He looked into his mother’s eyes and tried to say, “Of course not!” But something about her calm expression had always made it impossible to….

 

Lie? Was that it? He closed his eyes and said, haltingly, “It’s just….”

 

“Just….” Mrs. Pepper repeated.

 

“Maybe he could have tried harder. That’s it.”

 

Eyes open, he leaned forward and placed his hand on the coffee table. “You can fight off possession if you really…  _fight_  it, you know? If he’d just—I, I was right in front of him, if he’d managed to say _something_  I would have known something was wrong, I would have pulled back from the edge—” he heard something crack “— _maybe_  I would still be  _alive_  and we wouldn’t be in this mess if he had  _just tried!_ ”

 

The coffee table gave way beneath his hand, and he pitched forward. Looking down, he saw that its top had shattered into four slabs, and when he pulled his hand away it left a black handprint burned into the wood. He stared at his mother’s eyes as the crack’s sound ebbed away, leaving a second horrible silence.

 

She glanced down at the table, then back at him, and her eyes widened by a fraction of an inch. “Why don’t you….” Again she lost eye contact with him. He blinked; since when did she do this? “Why don’t you go and get your sisters for lunch?”  
  


There was a time when she could have done exactly that without standing from her chair or raising her voice, and Lewis almost asked her why she didn’t do just that. Then he stood, said, “Yes, Mom,” and hurried up the stairs.

 

In a way, everything looked the same upstairs: the wallpaper hadn’t changed its pattern, subtly inlaid with peppers—Mom and Dad had never exactly been ashamed of their names; lucky them— and the girls’ doors were each in some bright primary color: blue for Ginnie, red for Bell, and yellow for Cherry. His own was a more modest dark brown, just as it had been a year ago.

 

But this time, the doors were all closed. Lewis looked at his own and shivered, then looked at Bell’s and saw Ginnie standing in front of it. “Bell,” she said, “I just want to talk!”

 

She waited for a few seconds, then turned around with a groan and slumped to the floor, her back leaned against the red wood. Only now did she seem to notice him. “Oh, hi. What was all the shouting about?” she asked.

 

Lewis didn’t answer, but instead made to knock on Cherry’s door. However, Ginnie said, “If you’re going to try to talk to her, don’t bother. She’s trying to fix her theory. It takes a while.”

 

“Bell?”

 

Ginnie laughed a single laugh. “Neither of them are coming out for a while. Troublemakers. Oh, well, they’ll just have to have lunch later, right?”

 

Lewis let his hand fall. “I’m going to try to talk with them.”

 

“I’ve been  _trying_  to talk to them!” Ginnie sighed, then stood. “Well, good luck anyway,” she said as she walked downstairs. “See you in a bit.”

 

Lewis once again raised his hand to knock on Cherry’s door, but stopped as he heard a sound from behind Bell’s. “Bell?” he asked.

 

No response.

 

“Can I come in?”

 

No response.

 

“I’m coming in.”

 

Lewis pushed open her door, revealing Bell’s messy room—messier than he’d ever seen it, with books and snack wrappers strewn across the floor and a pile of dirty clothes in one corner. In the other corner was the bed, and on the corner of the bed sat Bell. She sat facing the wall, and didn’t so much as turn around as he entered.

 

“Bell, can’t we talk about this?” he asked.

 

She grunted. It didn’t sound like a grunt that meant “yes”, but in any case, he took a step forward, then winced as something crunched under his foot. He lifted it to see a half-eaten granola bar embedded in the carpet.

 

“I know you’re upset I was gone,” he said, “but… I’m here again. Can’t things be okay?”

 

She shook her head vigorously, still staring at the wall.

 

“I just want to talk—”

 

“That’s what  _everyone_  says!” And then she wasn’t staring at the wall, she was staring at him, with huge angry eyes. “Even  _Ginnie_  says it, and they’re all lying, they don’t want to talk, they just want me to shut up and  _listen_  because I’m  _bad_!”

 

She jumped off her bed, yelling, “You left, and now they’re all saying it, and now you’re back and _you’re saying it too!_  You  _jerk!_ ” She pounded her fist against his stomach. Then again, and again, and again. It didn’t hurt, at least not physically, but he doubled down and knelt as her pounding got weaker. “I  _hate_  you, I  _hate_  you, I  _HATE_  you! I  _hate_  you, I  _hate_  you….”

 

He grabbed her in an embrace, pulling her close. She sobbed into his shirt, and he let her. “Why didn’t you come back sooner?” she asked. “I thought you liked me. Why didn’t you come back for me?”

 

And this time, Lewis was the one with nothing to say. He just kept letting her sob, kneeling in the mess she’d left. The mess he’d left.


	13. The First-Case Scenario—Testimony

Refresh.  _Nope._

 

Refresh.  _Nil._

 

Refresh.  _Nada._

 

Refresh, refresh, refresh:  _zip, zero, zilch._

 

Vivi groaned under her breath, leaning up against the wall of Tome Tomb as she reloaded the Mystery Skulls email account time after time. One part of her knew it was like pressing the button on an elevator and expecting it to come faster, but that didn’t seem to be the part in control of her thumb. Besides, she’d been in the store for almost six hours, and perhaps a dozen customers had wandered into the store: she needed to do  _something_  to keep her sanity. Eventually,  _someone_  would need supernatural help, and  _someone_  would send them an email, right?

 

Finally, however, she conceded that the email wasn’t coming, and so—after a quick glance up to confirm that Duet still had their nose in that report—she opened up the Mystery Skulls webpage and went to her favorite part: testimonials.  _All_  glowing, thank you  _very_  much.

 

_I didn’t believe it at first when Ms. Lee told me we had a poltergeist, but before too long she and her team had isolated the spirit, shown it to me, then banished it from my bakery. We’ve had no more flying eclairs and upside down cakes since then, so whatever she did, it worked! Thank you, Mystery Skulls!_

 

She smiled. They’d gotten a free cake out of that one.

 

_Finding out that my husband had become a werewolf wasn’t an easy experience for the two of us, but the Mystery Skulls were very compassionate throughout the whole ordeal—particularly the large Hispanic gentleman. The two of us are forever indebted to their kindness._

 

She had to scratch her head at that one: a large Hispanic gentleman? Since when did they have any manner of Hispanic—

 

Up her hand came to smack herself full in the forehead. The testimonial was talking about  _Lewis._  Now she squinted: she’d browsed through these testimonials dozens of times in the past year, but somehow she’d never noticed this important detail. Still squinting, she scrolled up to the top and clicked the “About Us” link.

 

_Mystery Skulls is a paranormal investigation team. Made up of Vivi Lee, Arthur Kingsmen, and Lewis Hernandez—_

 

Her hand shook, and she fumbled her phone; it fell to the floor and locked itself. For Zeus’ sake, there’d even been a  _picture_  of the three of them and Mystery. She’d looked at that picture and not seen an entire  _quarter_  of it for a year?

 

She took a breath to steel herself, then grabbed her phone and turned it back on. It displayed the lock screen, with the date and time.

 

Crap. The time.

 

It was several minutes past three o'clock, which meant that a certain irritating hurricane was about to blow through. Vivi closed her eyes and took another, deeper breath, battening down her internal hatches, and just in time.

 

The door burst open. “ _Konichiwa, Vivi-senpai!_ ”

 

“Hi, Chloe!” Vivi said, standing up and waving as Hurricane Chloe blew into the building, massive costume and all.

 

Most hurricanes formed in the Atlantic, usually around Africa. However, what made Hurricane Chloe interesting—well, not so much  _interesting_  as merely  _odd—_ was that despite its North American origins, it pretended to have come from Japan, supposedly the greatest country on Earth.

 

“Chloe,” Duet said, lowering the book nodding to her with a slight smile. “How are you today?” Vivi couldn’t help but notice how they weren’t pointing out  _Chloe’s_  lateness.

 

“Feeling one hundred percent genki today, Duet-san!” Light glinted off Chloe’s teeth, deep beneath her hood.

 

Another thing Chloe had in common with a hurricane: they might have had eyes, but they were buried deep within layers of… er, fabric. Vivi had no idea why she wore the damn thing all the time, from dead winter to deep summer—when questioned, she’d only said it was a “cosplay of her Genocyber oh-cee”, and Vivi knew better than to ask further—but it hid almost all of Chloe’s face, minus her glasses, some of her mouth, and her hair.

 

“Terrific.” Duet stood, lifting in their hand a large, folded up banner with a few trailing cords. “We’re having a sale on encyclopedias. Please help me hang up this banner to advertise the fact. The cords are somewhat long, so I may need you to cut them at the ends.”

 

Chloe gulped. “I—I understand, Duet-san. I won’t let you down!”

 

_Oh, puh-lease._ Vivi groaned as Chloe bounded past Duet and out the door, while Duet followed in their usual stiff manner.  _No one, barring no one, is that anime. My own mother’s Japanese, and when she talks at all she does NOT talk like that!_

 

She plunked her head against the wall and tried to think of more comparisons to make between Chloe and a hurricane, but they all ended up as contrasts in the hurricane’s favor, so she gave up and glanced outside. They’d hung the banner, but true to his word Duet had used too much cord, so Chloe was holding a pair of scissors—and keeping her body as far turned away from them as possible, as if they were snakes that could turn on her at any moment.

 

One snip and they were cut; Chloe dropped the scissors immediately, then jumped in the air and yelled, “ _Yatta!_ ”

 

_Oh dear Thor up in Asgard._ Vivi smacked herself in the face, a smile of sheer fremdscham forcing its way to her lips. _She literally just did that in broad daylight._

 

“Well done, Chloe,” Duet said, smiling as the two of them re-entered. “You were very brave.”

 

Chloe’s beaming grin, the one that made Vivi wonder how many teeth one mouth could contain, was visible even beneath her hood. In a similar fashion, Vivi proved unable to stifle her single guffaw, and it erupted past her hand despite all her efforts. She looked up to see Duet looking at her coldly—no change there—and Chloe taking off her backpack and avoiding eye contact. “Sorry,” Vivi said, “just… thinking of something else.”

 

Duet shrugged and got back to the oh-so-important work of sitting behind their desk and reading a book, as Chloe opened her backpack and pulled something out. It wasn’t a notebook or textbook, but a manga—but of course that wasn’t the weird thing. The weird thing that Vivi noticed, as Chloe shoved her face into its pages and started reading right to left, was  _which_  manga it was. “ _Kill la Kill?_ ”

 

Chloe peeked up from above the pages. “You’ve heard of it?” Her voice sounded hopeful for some reason.

 

“I know, right? Me, having heard of a manga you’re reading?” Vivi rolled her eyes. “And I know for a _fact_  that it’s not from the nineties. Who are you, and what have you done—”

 

“—with the real Chloe, yeah—but it’s made by the same people who made Evangelion and Fooly Cooly and stuff, so it’s the  _spirit_  of the nineties! And it’s  _awesome!_ ” Chloe’s glasses seemed to shine brighter. “It’s about this girl Ryuko Matoi, and she’s totally not afraid to do anything, even completely expose herself! And she fights the villains with her best buddy Senketsu and a giant scissor blade and—”

 

“Chloe, I’m drowning in words over here.” Vivi flapped her hand in front of her face, as if shooing a horde of flies away. “Just enjoy your manga, okay?”

 

“You’d better believe I will, senpai!” Just like that, Chloe was once more up to her nose in the manga (assuming she  _had_  a nose, an assumption which Vivi had never confirmed). “And you should totally watch the anime, it’s so  _sugoi_!”

 

Vivi felt her neck and jawline tense involuntarily. “Not on your life,  _Chloe-kun_ ,” she muttered beneath her breath. Back to her phone she went, noting the comforting fact that she had less than two hours more of tedium to go, and a few more testimonials she could read. Maybe some of them would tell her more about the large Hispanic gentleman.

 

“Just saying, we could watch it together, maybe, and I could… show you some… fanart?”

 

_Thought we had a ghost. Turns out my no-good nephew was faking us out, so as to try to run us off the property. Mystery Skulls sorted it out nicely—my nephew might have been a boxer, but he was no match for a seven-foot Mexican!_

 

“Reading your website, huh.”

 

Vivi was not the kind of person who spazzed out at sudden shocks—it wasn’t a tendency that paid well when half her jobs involved literal haunted houses—but her hand shook even so. Chloe was now several inches above her shoulder, with no fanfare of any sort: it was as if she hadn’t covered the intervening distance. “Personal space!” Vivi hissed.

 

“Sorry!” Chloe backed away a few more inches, which was not really enough. “Those missions you do look really cool. Meeting all those crazy monsters and stuff.”

 

Vivi smiled despite herself, not looking over her shoulder. “They’re the best. Better than I can imagine, apparently.”

 

“You know….” Vivi heard Chloe shift from foot to foot. “I’ve been eighteen for a while. You know, a legal adult and all….”

 

“Not sure where you’re going with this, but I’ll take your word for it.” Even ignoring the blatant weeabooism, Vivi was pretty sure that a girl who was still terrified of scissors couldn’t quite be an adult yet—though this begged the question of how she’d managed to make her cosplays.

 

Chloe continued after a few seconds: “And your team’s still got that vacancy….”

 

“What the straw do you mean when you say—” Vivi’s phone fell to the floor from her slackened hand.

 

“So I was wondering, can I join the group?” Chloe hesitated for a moment, then plowed on. “I mean, I’d want a third of all earnings of course, but I’d be super helpful on your ghost raids! I’m a fast runner and I’ve got, um, good organization skills… Duet can vouch for me! So what do you say?”

 

Vivi said absolutely nothing, and she stared up at Chloe in open-mouthed disbelief. Chloe looked back at her, then sighed and turned around. “Wow, Arthur was right. You really don’t remember at all. Forget I said anything, senpai—I mean, I guess you will anyway, like all the other times, but—”

 

_Brain, turn on NOW._  “How many times have you asked me?” Vivi forced herself to say. It was as if she were forcing her jaw joints through a decade’s worth of rust, like the Tin Man trying to talk.

 

Chloe glanced back at her. “Uh… a bunch of times, I guess.”

 

“And how did I react whenever you asked me?”

 

“Uh….” Chloe was facing her again, and she sounded unsure; Vivi wished she could see the look on the girl’s face. “Well, you kinda didn’t react at all. I guess because Arthur said you forgot about that whole thing? I mean, he told me not to bring it up, but—”

 

“Oh, Arthur told you, did he?”

 

Vivi stood up and faced Chloe, and said, “Lewis.” She walked closer, repeating over and over as she got right into Chloe’s face: “Lewis, Lewis, Lewis, Lewis,  _LEWIS!_ ”

 

Chloe gasped and flinched away. “That’s right,” Vivi said, “I remember. But hey,  _thanks a bunch_  for trying to remind me of my dead boyfriend every day. And just for the record, that vacancy has been filled, but even if it hadn’t been, I would  _never_  let it get filled by  _you!_ ”

 

Something glinted behind Chloe’s glasses; she grabbed one hand with the other and held it against her body as if to hug herself. Vivi took a deep breath, let it out, and said in tones that were  _perfectly calm_ , “Enjoy reading your freaking manga.” She heard a little intake of air as Chloe rushed past her and into the manga section of the bookstore.

 

Something moved in her peripheral vision, and she looked to the side to see Duet with their eyes on her, beckoning her closer with a finger. She walked to the side of the desk, and they sat up and said in a low voice, “That was uncalled for.”

 

“You’re right. It was absolutely uncalled for when Chloe brought up Lewis.”

 

Their eyebrows bent inward ever so slightly. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

 

“Sure I know. I just don’t care.”

 

Before Duet could respond to that, Vivi turned on her heel and stomped over to the other corner, away from the manga section. She tried to pull out her phone, realized she’d left it on the floor behind her, muttered, “ _Excrement!_ ” under her breath, and retrieved it, taking care not to glance at Chloe—

 

Chloe heaved a small breath, and Vivi couldn’t put it out of her mind how much it sounded like a sob. With some effort, she walked away, but it clearly wasn’t enough effort, because she stopped dead at another inhalation from the corner. Vivi sighed, then returned to where Chloe was crouching by the bookshelf. “Hey,” she said.

 

Chloe looked up. Vivi was relieved to be unable to make out any tears; she’d have felt like a puppy kicker. “Look, sorry,” Vivi said, “but can you see how you kinda crossed the line there? So just try not to do that, and we’re cool as zucchinis. Got it?”

 

“Okay!” Chloe’s smile turned back on like a searchlight, and Vivi flinched away—that was  _way_  more teeth than any reasonable smile ought to have. “So does that mean you wanna watch  _Kill la Kill_  now?”

 

_Well,_  Vivi thought as she managed a noncommital half-shrug,  _good to see no lasting damage was done—or any damage at all._  Leaving Chloe to her manga, she returned to the other corner and pulled out her phone to browse the web anew.  _Less than two hours to go. Hestia, grant me tedium._

 

* * *

 

“Hey, fuddy-duddy buddy!”

 

“I resent that remark, Vivi,” Arthur said, without looking up from tightening a hubcap bolt.

 

“You  _aaaaaare_ , though.”

 

Arthur felt both of Vivi’s hands on his shoulders, and stood up, pushing against her hands. “Just because I have high standards in regards to musical taste….” He turned around to see her ebullient smile, and tried to mirror it with one of his own, though he suspected it would be like a funhouse mirror that made things smaller. “Looks like you had a nice day.”

 

“Hahahaha, nope.” Vivi pulled a grimace. “It was kinda awful from start to finish, but I’m here with my _best bud_  now, right?” There was something about her emphasis on those two words— _best bud—_ that made Arthur want to flinch, as if she’d presented claws instead of syllables. “Not for too long, though, because I gotta buy human food for Mystery, because he doesn’t like dog food all of a sudden, and then I need to get a big night’s sleep because I am ex _hausted_  and Duet wants me to come in early tomorrow. To make up for the time I’ve missed, apparently.” She yawned. “Gotta say, I’m not a huge turbine of the idea.”

 

“Turbine isn’t a synonym for fan, Vivi. They’re more like opposites.”

 

“I know, I know… Jesus Krishna, I am off my game.” Vivi rubbed her forehead with two fingers. “Here’s hoping you had a better day than I did.”

 

“Hey, Art?”

 

This was Lance’s voice; he walked into view with car keys in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. “If you don’t inordinately mind closing up shop, I’d like to go out drinking with the buddies….” He noticed Vivi, and stared at her for a second or two before nodding. “Afternoon, miss Lee.”

 

“Call me Vivi—'miss Lee’ was my mom.” Vivi shrugged. “Well, not really, she only became a Lee when she married my dad, but you get the idea.”

 

“If you say so, miss Lee.”

 

Vivi grunted as Lance returned his attention to Arthur. “So can you close up?”

 

“Sure thing, Uncle Lance.” Arthur nodded for extra effect. “See you tomorrow!”

 

“You too, kid. Keep it together, all right?”

 

Lance hopped into his pickup—more of a full-on jump, really—and the two of them watched his car back out, then drive out. It seemed a terribly slow process, and time seemed reluctant to speed up once it had passed from view, leaving Arthur and Vivi to watch an empty street as the sun worked its lazy way to the horizon. Vivi sighed and rested her arm, and much of her body weight, on his shoulders.

 

_Kiss her, why don’t you._

 

Arthur  _really_  disliked intrusive thoughts.

 

“He resents you,” Arthur blurted. The silence needed words to fill it the same way a vacuum demanded air. “Lance. He’s angry at you because working with you got me hurt.”

 

Vivi’s arm fell off his shoulder. “Wow, that’s… you didn’t have to tell me that. Thanks, though.”

 

“I don’t like lying to you,” Arthur said, looking Vivi in the eyes. The statement seemed like a plea.

 

Vivi laughed. “Ah, but how do I know you’re not lying about lying,  _ooooooh_ ,” she said, waving her hands in a way that looked like it was supposed to be funny.

 

Try as he might, Arthur couldn’t force a laugh, and silence reasserted itself, demanding tribute once more. Vivi’s forced smile went away, and she sighed. Arthur couldn’t think of anything to say either, and he looked back into the shop for something to do.

 

“Actually, there’s something I gotta talk to you about.”

 

_Thank you, God,_  Arthur thought.

 

“Chloe was talking at work and she said something about… you telling her not to tell me things. You know, things about Lewis? The same way Mrs. Pepper said you told her I didn’t remember?”

 

_Belay those thanks, God,_  Arthur thought. He pulled his hand through his hair, same routine as always: one of these days he had to find some new nervous tics.

 

“So who else have you told? Or did you just save time and rent a billboard at the edge of town? ‘Please Keep Local Crackpot in the Dark’?” Vivi pressed her hand on her forehead. “That got mean. That wasn’t supposed to get so mean.”

 

“It’s okay.”

 

“It’s  _not_  okay. I mean, yeah, what you did was basically pointless because I was tuning out any mention of Lewis anyway, but….” Vivi sighed. “Just tell me who you’ve told, okay? So I can set the record straight. I don’t want people walking on Faberge eggs around me.”

 

_Oh, that’s nice. “Basically pointless”._  Arthur’s head slumped.  _Nothing you did all last year amounted to anything._

 

“Arthur? Hey?” Vivi snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Don’t freeze up on me here—I gotta know this.”

 

“Um… the Peppers. Duet, Chloe. Uncle Lance.” Arthur waited a few more seconds for the silence to draw more words from him. “Various small business owners around town… the Pavelskis… Madame L'Extraordinaire….”

 

“Oh my Ra, you told Madame L'Extraordinaire?” Vivi groaned. “Shoulda sprung for the billboard, Art.”

 

“Sorry, sorry—”

  
“Arthur, you’re Faberging.”

 

“Sorr—” Arthur smacked his hand against his mouth to keep the word in.

 

“It’s fine. Just…. That was everyone, then?”

 

Arthur nodded, and Vivi sat down on the driveway with a sigh. “You ever discover, all at once, that your life is way different than you thought it was?” The silence hung in the air for a long minute, and Arthur sat down beside her. Finally, she spoke up. “You haven’t checked in on Lewis, have you?”

 

Arthur shook his head.

 

“Because I haven’t either, and I dunno… should one of us, you know, do that? Make sure he’s okay, that kind of thing? Is that the kind of thing… girlfriends do?”

 

“He loves his family a lot,” Arthur said. “He’s probably happier being left with them awhile.”

 

“Sounds nice,” Vivi mumbled, before clearing her throat. “I mean, if one of us  _did_  go, which of us would it be? You know him better, but he knows  _me_  better….” She slumped forward, a change from her usual erect posture; with so few inches to spare, she liked to make use of every single one. “I don’t know. I’m not a turbine of not knowing.”

 

“Turbine still isn’t a synonym for fan.”

 

“Oh dear… insert god here, did I just do that?” Vivi pushed herself from the ground with both hands, back to her feet. “And twice in the same conversation. I am  _off my game_. Time to go.”

 

Arthur pouted. “Already?”

 

“Still need sleep, and Mystery still wants people food. Gotta go!” She patted his back. “You’re still gonna tell me if anything’s wrong on your end, right?”

 

“Sure, yeah….”

 

“I’ll hold you to that. Bye!” Vivi ran off, or at least half-jogged: he guessed her back was bothering her again.

 

_Ah, but what if you’re not telling her the truth about telling her the truth ? Ooooooh._

 

_Oh, good,_ Arthur thought, as he set about closing up Kingsmen Mechanics for the day.  _Now my intrusive thoughts are getting sassy with me._  For now, at least, he had something to do.

 

* * *

 

Maybe, at last, things were slotting into place.

 

Bell finally came downstairs, still clinging to Lewis like a fridge magnet, and about as talkative as one. Mrs. Pepper prepared lunch, and the four of them—Lewis, Ginnie, Bell, and Mrs. Pepper—ate in silence. Bell stared at her soup, whereas Lewis kept noticing Ginnie staring into his eyeholes, only to look away once she’d seen him notice.

 

About an hour later, Mr. Pepper returned, panting and wearing beads of sweat which indicated his walk had turned into a run. “I’m… fine…” he said, but when Ginnie brought him a glass of water he chugged it all without pausing for breath. Then he stepped up to Lewis.

 

“You….” He raised a shaky index finger and pressed it into Lewis’s ascot. “You… gigantic… idiot… of a son… of an idiot… of a son….”

 

He pushed forward, and Lewis stepped away—not because his father had exerted enough force, but because he was worried that Mr. Pepper would push himself backward otherwise. “Don’t do that again, young man,” Mr. Pepper said.

 

“Yes… sir.” Lewis had never called his father “sir” before.

 

“Okay. Well….” Mr. Pepper heaved a few deep breaths. “Shower now. Talk soon.” With that he pulled himself up the stairs, seeming to rely more on his hands on the banister than his feet on the steps.

 

Lewis sat in the living room, wringing his hands together and trying not to look at the wrecked coffee table, wishing he didn’t feel like a defendant—but when Mr. Pepper came down, the conversation never once revisited Arthur, or Lewis’s past year.

 

No: his parents talked his nonexistent ears off about the family’s year. About how Mr. Pepper was hoping to run a marathon one of these days, and had started training in earnest this past summer. About Ginnie, and how many church bake sales she’d attended—enough that she’d already fulfilled her volunteer requirement for confirmation, three years away (Ginnie blushed in pride).

 

About Bell, and all the fights she’d gotten into at school (Bell blushed in pride, and Lewis was pretty sure she ought not to have). About how the girls had been enrolled in Girl Scouts—and about all the fights that Bell had gotten into at Girl Scouts.

 

Yet even as Lewis sat there and listened, his parents’ eyes never left his face, and he never lost the sensation of being on trial. And there was still the matter of the missing piece. The piece who barely got mentioned in an hours-long account of the past year’s goings on. The piece who couldn’t be cajoled down for lunch or dinner, who only left her room to snatch a snack from the kitchen, then retreat back upstairs before they’d noticed her appearance.

 

And now it was time for bed. Mr. Pepper led Ginnie and Belle to their rooms, and Mrs. Pepper brought Lewis to his. “So,” she said as she opened the door, “here it is.”

 

It was his room all right, with a bed that had kept needing replacing every time he’d grown another foot, and sheaves of music sheets stacked neatly on the radiator next to his old violin. There was no dust, but it was clear that the room had not been truly used in a year; the bed was too well made and the floor too clean to have been lived in, and there was an unnatural stillness about the whole thing. “Nice to be home, isn’t it?” his mother asked.

 

“Yeah, nice….” There was one thing out of place, and as Lewis took several hesitant steps into the room, he saw it for what it was. On his bedside table stood a small Lego house, the same one that had been left in the restaurant kitchen so many times.

 

He picked it up. “Cherry,” he said. He turned back around and looked at his mother. “ _Por favor_ , Mom, I’ve got to talk to her. Does she still not get I’m….”

 

Mrs. Pepper closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “We can’t get through to her. Maybe you can?”

 

“I can try.”

 

Mrs. Pepper stepped aside from the door, and Lewis passed her, standing for a moment in front of Cherry’s closed door. He turned the knob and pushed, then winced as he heard something scraping the floor behind it, followed by a gasp and small footsteps from deeper inside. Then, Cherry’s face appeared in the crack between the door and the jamb.

 

She glanced up at him, then slammed the door shut. Lewis heard more scraping noises, like a mountain being pushed out of the way, and then the door opened again, just wide enough for him to enter.

 

He squeezed himself into the gap and out the other side, into a room that seemed occupied by Lego forces. Save for a razor-thin passageway to the bed, and another to the dresser, every inch of floorspace was occupied by extravagant Lego creations: not just mountains, but rivers, battles, spaceships, castles….

 

The walls hadn’t been spared either, but instead of bricks they were covered in construction paper, and the paper was covered in mad scribblings that Lewis didn’t want to decipher. Cherry stood atop her bed, covering another paper with more writings.

 

Lewis was starting to get an idea of how she’d spent her past year. “You left this in my room,” he said, holding out the house and teetering like a gymnast between piles of half-finished Lego construction.

 

“Thanks. You can put it anywhere. I’m so close, I’m so close….”

 

_D_ éjà vu, Lewis decided. He didn’t put the house anywhere. “Cherry,” he started to say.

 

The point of Cherry’s pencil broke, and she screamed and threw it on the bed. “I give up! I can’t concentrate, I can’t figure out how you did it. You have to tell me, Lew!”

 

His grip on the house tightened. “Cherry,  _stop_.”

 

“What do you mean, stop?” Her mouth twitched between a smile and a grimace—elation and frustration blended into the same half-crazed expression. “You can tell me how you did it, right? You can do anything! And then I can tell everyone else, too!”

 

“I  _didn’t_  do it, Cherry!” he yelled. Then he grit his teeth and tried to speak through them. “I  _died_! No crazy theories, no secret team, no fighting the bad guys! I just  _died!_ ”

 

She was a foot further from him than she had been. Had he missed her backing away? “No,” she said, taking another step. “No, that doesn’t make sense, because you’re here and seeing is believing, ad you’re here, and you’re okay, and—”

 

“ _I’M NOT OKAY!”_

 

She was another foot away from him. She was running out of bed to retreat upon “Look at me!” he bellowed. “Look at my eyes! I’m  _broken!_ ” He gasped. “I'm—I’m broken,” he repeated, and she stood still.

 

He was broken. Or maybe everyone else was. Or both. His grip tightened.

 

“You can’t be….” Her eyes told the story; if she’d had a mile to run away she’d have done it in world record time.

 

He tried to take a deep breath. To put it all on hold for her sake. “No, Cherry, listen,” he said, offering the Lego house to her. “Just because something’s broken, that doesn’t mean you can't—”

 

She shrieked. The house was melting like candlewax in his hand. He lost his balance, stumbled, and planted his hand on one of her sheets of construction paper, with the house in the way; it splattered all over the paper.

 

Cherry was still screaming. Lewis ripped the paper off the wall and crumpled it, melted plastic and all, into the  _tiniest most compressed ball_  he could—and then saw his hands were not covered in skin, but instead coated black as if with pitch, and with boney plates on the palms, as if he were some sort of skeleton—

 

And there was his heart on his chest, pulsing in stripes of pink and red, laid above his protruding ribs.

 

He threw the ball of trash into a random Lego pile and stomped out, not heeding the cracking sounds beneath his feet, nor the crash when he threw the door open despite the barricade against it. Mrs. Pepper was still outside, and she started to say, “Explain what happened in—” But she gasped and fell silent.

 

“ _Don’t talk to me!_ ” Lewis hissed. He grabbed his bedroom door and slammed it so hard he heard something break on the first floor.  _Oh, dios._  He looked down at his hands—he didn’t want to find a mirror, to look at his face—and tried to will flesh back onto them.  _Be human again. Please, please be human again._

 

At length, the outer layer of skin inched its way onto his hands, as if he were putting on a tight pair of gloves in reverse. With a sigh of relief, he fell onto the bed.  _Well, that was a disaster._  He closed his eyes—that was to say, he shut his eyelids—and tried to get to sleep.

 

It occurred to him, about five minutes later, that he couldn’t remember having slept at all the past year.

 

His eyelids snapped open to stare at the ceiling. Did ghosts sleep?

 

And if not, what the hell else was he going to do with his time?

 

* * *

 

He sat beneath the lotus tree of wisdom, his eyes closed in perfect bliss, his hands laid out upon his crossed legs.

 

“Sensei Arthur,” said a voice. He saw a goat before him, its head low in respect, its horns dripping red.

 

“Padawan Bleat,” he replied, recognizing his disciple from the ninth pasture.

 

“Sir, I have killed the Buddha as you instructed. The authorities are baaaa-ffled.”

 

“Good, good.” Arthur smiled beatifically. “Now none may trouble us on the path to enlightenment, up the great tree of connection. Our monopoly is complete.”

 

“ _Squeak! Squeak squeak!_ ”

 

“Come now, Padaham,” he said, patting his shrillest follower on the head. “You wouldn’t tell the police it was us if I gave you….” Reaching into his long sleeve, he whipped out a little nugget of hamster food and waggled it in front of Galaham’s face. “This treat? Would you, buddy?”

 

“ _Squeak squeak squeak!_ ”

 

His eyes narrowed, which was weird because he was pretty sure they were still closed. And yet he could see everything perfectly? “Why, you dirty rat—”

 

“ _Arthur…._ ”

 

His eyes opened, and he looked up. “Wait. Lotuses don’t grow on trees.”

 

“Not now, Sensei!” Padawan Bleat, well, bleated. “We must discuss finance!”

 

It was too late: Arthur took Galaham in his hands and rose, rose, rose up through the layers of consciousness, called and commanded by that hoarse voice, like stone scraped against stone: “ _Arthur…._ ”

 

His eyes—his  _real_  eyes—opened. “ _Arthur…._ ” the voice repeated.

 

He looked to the source and saw, leaning through his window—“ _Jesus Christ!_ ” he screamed.

 

A rotting corpse in a moldy burial suit. Eyes like mushy fruit that stared, unseeing, into Arthur’s. A hand reaching toward him, its nails seeming abnormally long, its skin taut over frozen bones.

 

Arthur kicked out with his heels, and backed away so hard and fast that his head slammed into the back wall. “Crap!” he yelled, his heart still going at a mile a minute. So was Galaham’s squeaking, and Arthur wondered if the little guy was actually taking breaths in between. “It’s okay, buddy,” he said, trying to control his own breathing. “It’s just Lewis.”

 

Lewis shifted in his peripheral vision, and Arthur glanced up to see his hand fall to his side. “Good one, Lew,” Arthur said, waving with one hand as he petted Galaham with the other. “You scared the bejeezus outta me, man.”

 

“Huh?” Lewis said, leaning back and bumping his head against the wall as well. “Ow.” Now that Arthur had a good look at his friend, he wasn’t that terrifying after all. In fact, he could almost appreciate the fact that Lewis had figured out a new form. A godawful, decaying new form.

 

“Is this more payback for the cave, or….” Arthur grunted and turned back to his pillow. “Nevermind. You know I don’t blame you, man, but can I get some sleep? I’m really tired….”

 

“Arthur….” This time, the voice wasn’t so coarse. Arthur looked up to see Lewis stepping through the window, just barely squeezing his shoulders through the frame, then sitting on the sill. “What happened in the cave?”

 

“Huh?” Arthur scratched his hair. “But Mystery told you—”

 

“Yeah, yeah, Mystery told me.” Lewis flapped a hand his way. “I want to hear it from you. Everything. What  _really_  happened.”

 

“The whole night?”

 

“The whole night.”

 

“All right….” Arthur took a deep breath that turned into a yawn, then let Galaham off his hand and sat up straight.

 

“Vivi had told us about some sort of cave with an evil spirit. The Wraith of… something. Westwood, maybe? I’d never heard of it. But she was really excited, and of course  _you_  were really excited, and I was… pretty excited too.”

 

“That doesn’t sound like the truth, Arthur.”

 

Quick breaths. Quicker, before long, than when he’d first seen Lewis as a corpse—quicker and quicker, building like a crescendo. “It’s not,” he forced out. “It sounded like bad stuff, I didn’t wanna go, but—but—”

 

“But what?” Lewis leaned closer. “Why’d you go if you were… scared?”

 

“Because—because  _you_  were going, and  _she_  was going, and… you needed my help, right?” Arthur kneaded his eyelids with his palms. “Except I didn’t, you know, so much  _help_  that time as….”

 

He fell silent, but Lewis didn’t nod or make any other gesture. He just sat still as a monument, his lack of movement prompting Arthur to continue.

 

“We got to the cave, and Vivi had us split up to cover more ground… because  _that_  always works in the movies, right? You and I went up, Mystery went down with Vivi, and… I started hearing this voice. Not the usual voice in my head, this one was… worse. Way worse, way  _way_  worse, and….”

 

Arthur felt moisture on his cheeks and instinctively wiped it off. “You were standing on top of a cliff, and there were a bunch of spikes down below, and the voice said, ‘Push him’. And then it took over my legs, and my arm, my face, and it made me….” He sniffed, and his sight blurred. “It made me….”

 

_Engine leak_ , he thought, as he broke down, tears flowing down his face, and he had no control over them. “Hey,” Lewis said, barely audible over Arthur’s own sobs. “Easy there.”

 

“I’m  _sorry_!” Arthur pounded his fist on his bedspread. “I’m  _sorry_ , I should have stopped it, it should have been me, I just couldn’t—”

 

“Hey!”

 

This time, Lewis’s voice was a little coarser. Arthur looked up to see him standing fully in the room, his eyes narrowed. “Don’t—don’t  _editorialize_ , okay? Just keep telling me what happened.”

 

Arthur took more deep breaths, and noticed something bumping against his leg: Galaham, demanding his attention. He picked his hamster up and started petting, and the action helped more than the breathing did.

 

“The voice, the demon or spirit or… or whatever, it was going to make me go after Vivi next. And then it stopped. Because Mystery, well… tore my arm off, and took the thing with it.” Arthur hiccupped. “I passed out, and the next thing I knew it was a few days later and I was down an arm. And you were….”

  
“Down?” Lewis asked, his head tilted to the side and a faint smile on his face.

 

Arthur opened his mouth once more, starting to say, “I’m sorry”, but Lewis leaned in and pressed his finger against Arthur’s lips. “That was all the gods’ honest truth, right? Then don’t give me any of that ‘I’m sorry’ crap when you don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

 

“But… this whole year… with you and Vivi and everything….” Arthur rubbed his cheeks again, getting what he hoped was the last of the tears. “I’m so tired of screwing up.”

 

“Then, um….” Lewis half-turned around and walked back to the window. “I guess stop screwing up? You’ll be okay, man. Trust me.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Would I lie to you?” Lewis winked. “Oh, and sorry for scaring you earlier. Had to get it out of my system, I guess.”

 

“No problem,” Arthur said, managing a smile. It didn’t seem as hard as it had done earlier that day. “G’night, Lewis!”

 

“Good night, Arthur,” Lewis grunted, trying to fit through the window again, swiveling his torso this way and that. “Ugh—come on—how did I—” He pulled his head out from the window and asked, “Can I use your door?”

 

Arthur nodded, and Lewis walked stiffly out through the bedroom door. Arthur heard him collide with a few walls, and bite back a few swears, before the front door opened and shut.

 

Galaham was still nuzzled against his chest, and Arthur was still absentmindedly petting him, but he got the feeling he wouldn’t be for long. Arthur yawned again, and lay his head back on his pillow.

 

“You’ll be okay, man,” he murmured. “Trust me.”

 

_Well, if Lewis believes it…._

 

* * *

 

So much for having a useful body.

 

“I swear by the many  _freaking_  arms of Durga,” the thing inhabiting Lewis’s corpse huffed, as he puppeteered the body away from Arthur’s house with not an ounce of care. It was a wonder the boots didn’t go through the sidewalk, or get shattered themselves. “If I just went and  _helped_  that ingrate with his psychological problems….”

 

He gorged himself on anger, he could make a meal from fear or hate, but  _sadness_? Sadness was worse than useless: it was anathema, poison to his whole system. It was a wonder he hadn’t expired then and there in that bedroom.

 

He only hoped it had been worth the information he’d gotten—after all, how often did he end up inhabiting the corpse of someone who’d gone on to be a  _ghost_? This had to be a first, and it might have thrown him off tonight— _badly_  thrown him, even—but if he played his cards right….

 

He shook himself mentally, and the body swayed a bit too, as if hanging from strings. “Concentrate,” he muttered. All the card-playing in the world wouldn’t matter if he didn’t make it through the night.

 

The possessor stomped off down the street, looking for a  _meal_.


	14. The First-Case Scenario—Anosmia

Light drifted across Arthur’s eyelids, and at length he sat up, stretched, yawned, and stood. Galaham waited expectantly by his bowl, so Arthur didn’t wait to put on his arm: he grabbed the hamster food and poured a generous helping.  _How strange_ , he mused,  _to wake up rested._

 

His phone rang, and he fumbled the bag of food: Galaham’s generous helping abruptly became ludicrous, and he squeaked with glee. As Galaham began shoving dried veggies in his mouth, Arthur dropped the bag and slid his hand along his dresser until he found the phone. “Hey, Uncle Lance,” he said.

 

“Sorry if I woke—” Lance grunted with what could have been anything between tiredness and pain. “If I woke you up.”

 

“Don’t worry about it.” Arthur tucked the phone against his right shoulder as he worked on getting a limb onto his left. As he grabbed for the prosthetic on the table, he said, “So, what’s up?”

 

“Last night got a little… one might go so far as to call it  _hectic_.”

 

“Took a suplex wrong, did you?”

 

“Still not a wrestler,” Lance grunted. “But I appreciate the thought. Long and the short of it, I’ll be fine to come back later today, but I need you to open up shop.”

 

“Just a moment….” In the process of trying to line up his prosthetic with the male end on the shoulder, Arthur’s phone slipped and fell to the floor. He jammed the prosthetic into place, shivered at the rush of sensation, then scooped the phone back up in his metal hand. “That sounds a-okay, Uncle. See ya!”

 

A pained chuckle filtered through from the other end of the line. “That’s pretty upbeat, coming from you. Slept well?”

 

“Not too great at first, but then I talked with Lewis, and… that really helped, yeah.”

 

Silence from Lance for several seconds. Then: “Oh, you mean you went to his grave.”

 

Another pause. “The one that’s five miles east. In the middle of the night. And you don’t have a working car…. What?”

 

Arthur laughed. “I’ll tell you in person, Lance. It’s a heckuva story.”

 

“I burn with anticipation,” Lance muttered. “Later?”

 

“Later!”

* * *

 

“Ooh!” Vivi grinned at her phone, held over a sizzling plate of omelet.

 

Mystery lifted his head from its previous position within his omelet. “What?” he said through a mouthful. Egg went everywhere.

 

Vivi brushed the food from her sleeve. “Something went bump in the night. Last night!” She held the phone to him so he could see the snippet of news story and its headline:  _Local Couple Accosted by Intruder in Night; Police Looking for Suspects_.

 

“A home invasion.” Mystery squinted. “That doesn’t seem quite our line of work.”

 

“There’s more!” Vivi cleared her throat, then read, “ _Mrs. Appleby described the intruder’s skin as having a ‘pallor of death’ and his eyes as rotten-looking, and she claims he had a stench of decay around him._ ” She shook with excitement. “Can you say ’ _zombie_ ’?”

 

“Can you say 'crazy hobo with poor hygiene’? Be serious.”

 

With that, Mystery planted his snout back into his food, sending another morsel flying onto her sweater. Vivi grumbled as she wiped it off again.  _Killjoy._

 

* * *

 

_Mistah_ _Kurtz_ _—he dead_

_A penny for the Old Guy_

 

No, Lewis didn’t sleep. Not the way he knew sleep to be. The room remained in his sight, and yet almost out of it, as if his whole field of view lay in his peripheral vision.

 

_We are the hollow men_

_We are the stuffed men_

 

But he  _lost track_. Space may not have vanished, but time did, and phantom phrases filtered through his unconsciousness.

 

_We have lingered in the chambers of the sea_

_By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown_

_Till human voices wake us, and we drown._

 

“Lewis?”

 

_While I nodded, gently napping,_

_Suddenly there came a tapping,_

_As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door…._

 

The voice was quiet, barely louder than the soundless words in Lewis’s head, but it was enough to return him to consciousness.

 

“'tis some visitor,” he muttered.  _Mostly_  to consciousness.

 

Several somethings were wrong, and it took him a moment to discover the first: his bed— _wasn’t_. Instead of a raised mattress and four posts around him, he was surrounded by tapering sides of crimson velvet. He sat up and recognized them for what they were: a coffin.  _Huh._

 

The lid lay on the floor to his side, and his gaze alit upon it: then upon the purple carpet, the cauldrons of violet flame to either side of his coffin, the dark walls…. Finally, the Duchess’s portrait in front of him. “Good morning, Master Lewis!” she said, as his line of sight reached her. “And how are you this fine October day?”

 

Apparently, he had not been as aware of his surroundings as he believed.

 

“Lewis?” his father whispered, knocking at his door from outside. “Is—is someone in there?”

 

Lewis felt around for his jaw and noticed it was missing. He tapped his face with his hand and concentrated, then felt his human form remanifest around his skeleton; then, he returned his attention to the Duchess, who now wore an awkward grimace. “Is this a bad time?” she asked.

 

Lewis waved his hand, and the room of his mansion disappeared with the movement, as easily as if he were wiping a whiteboard. His plain, well-kept room lay behind it, and when he looked down again, he was sitting on his bed. “Come in, Dad,” he said.

 

Mr. Pepper opened the door and peered in cautiously. “Were you talking to someone?”

 

“Just myself.” Lewis scratched his neck. “I think.  _Buenos días,_ _Papa_.”  
  


He nodded and fully entered the room. “So…” he said. “I guess yesterday could have gone….”

 

“Better?”

 

“Better.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“But,” Mr. Pepper continued, “maybe we can turn things around today.” A twinkle lit up his eyes. “The girls are still asleep, and Mrs. Pepper will be getting them to school. But someone’s got to open up Pepper Paradiso, don’t they?”

 

Lewis’s eyes widened.

 

“So… what say you help your old man make some food, eh?” Mr. Pepper punched Lewis’s shoulder, then shook out his hand. “Ouch, that’s boney—but anyway, you like the sound of that?”

 

Knives flashing in the fluorescent light; his father kissing his mother’s cheek; oil sizzling in the pan; the all-pervading smell of peppers. “Yes,” Lewis said, stumbling over the single syllable in his haste. “More than anything.”

 

* * *

 

Same old dumpster to his left. Same old miniature parking lot under his feet. Same old door in front of him, and same old dad in front of it.

 

“So,” Mr. Pepper said, unlocking the back door to the kitchen and pushing it open, “what do you think?”

 

Lewis hunched down so as to fit through the doorway, and reached to his right for the lightswitch without looking. If memory served, it was right— _there_.

 

He flicked it, and the light blasted against the room until it  _glowed_. There were the knives, shining on the wall to his right, and the good old, formerly haunted pantry to his left. Surrounding him were the impeccable counters and impeccable floors, cleaned within an inch of their non-lives every night: well-used, well-kept, and above all well-loved.

 

He crossed to the oven and pulled it open, feeling the satisfying weight of the door as it swung out, bathing in the warm yellow light from within. Finally, this felt like coming home.

 

Didn’t it?

 

“Feeling happy?”

 

Lewis looked up to see his dad wringing his hands. “It’s just…” Mr. Pepper said, “you look relaxed. Not like yesterday when you were all stiff like—oh, God.” He smacked himself in the face. “Awful word choice.”

 

Lewis didn’t bother containing his chuckle. “ _E_ _stá bien_ , Dad,” he said through his mirth. “Let’s get cooking.”

 

“Yes! Let’s!” As Lewis assumed his work position, Mr. Pepper assumed his own, and added, “Maybe I can finally get started on mark one hundred four.”

 

“Wait…” Lewis had been about to grab some ingredients from the pantry: he looked back at his father. “You mean the Heaven and Hell Cake?” When Mr. Pepper nodded, Lewis said, “Weren’t you at one hundred and three the last time I saw you?”

 

Mr. Pepper laughed a bit. “Well,” he said, with a smile that didn’t quite match his suddenly subdued tone, “I guess I kinda fell off the wagon, so to speak, after….”

 

The silence strung itself out for a few seconds; then, Mr. Pepper said, “Why don’t you try making something yourself? Like a candy corn enchilada? You like those, right?”

 

“Sure,” Lewis said, reaching once more into the food pantry. The ingredients were where they ought to be, and as he opened up the cabinet above himself, he found the pan with similar ease. So why couldn’t he shake the sense that something was missing?

 

Debone the chicken: check. Measure the candy corns out: check. Put the oil in the pan: check. Heat it until it sizzled, and listen to the sweet sound: check.

 

Savor the smell….

 

Lewis blinked. The smell.

 

“No,” he said. He shoved his face close to the oil and tried to breathe in: his nose made the noise, but it was just a facsimile, and he felt no air coming in—smelled no sizzling oil. All for show.

 

“Lewis?” Mr. Pepper said.

 

“I can't—”

 

He would rather have discovered he was blind—deaf—both. He plunged his hand into the oil and shoved some into his mouth. He felt his tongue coated in the stuff, felt it sizzling against his projected flesh, and it tasted like nothing.

 

It didn’t even burn.

 

“Lewis—what the hell are you doing?” Mr. Pepper cried out. “Are you okay?”

 

“ _No!_ ” He whirled around, and the kitchen wasn’t home anymore—it felt as ghastly as his transformed room had been, but in the opposite direction. The shining fluorescents felt like mockeries, and the countertops felt like shells, as if he could poke them and watch them crumble.

 

“It’s all wrong!” Now he burned, but not in his mouth: there was fire in his chest, fire all around his flesh, and it felt like it was melting away. “It’s all wrong, Dad, I can’t smell, I can’t taste, I can’t talk to Cherry, I can’t talk to you, I can't—”

 

“Lewis!” Mr. Pepper shouted. “ _Pulse!_ ”

 

Sheer force of instinct halted Lewis mid-sentence, and his brain began to search for a heartbeat.

 

He should have known better—to think he deserved a heartbeat. “ _Pulse?_ ” Lewis screamed, grabbing his chest and feeling nothing behind it. “ _PULSE?_ ” The same arm swept around and smashed the cabinet, turning its door into splinters. Pots and pains rained down from it, crashing into the stove, the oil, the floor.

 

But not into Lewis. Lewis was already leaving.  _Out_. He moved across the kitchen, seeing white gleaming ribs and a floating locket in the bottom of his peripheral vision.  _Have to get out._

 

“Lewis, wait!” Mr. Pepper called from behind him. “It’s okay! It’s just—”

 

Lewis went through the door, out the parking lot, and  _away—_ as long as it didn’t hurt like this, he didn’t care where to.

 

* * *

 

“It’s just….” Mr. Pepper’s hand reached out to Lewis as he disappeared through the door. Not the doorway—the door itself, which he hadn’t opened. Nor had he stepped through it, instead gliding like some  _wraith_ —

 

He shook himself. “It’s just stuff,” he said, letting his arm fall. His gaze turned to the mess Lewis had left: oil splattered all over the counter, pots and pans strewn about like litter after a concert, and a single rusty key, balanced right on the edge of the stovetop. As he watched, it teetered a moment more, then fell to the floor with the tiniest of pings.

 

“It’s just stuff,” he repeated.

 

* * *

 

Arthur started the car—check: the motor’s sound filled the Kingsmen Mechanics’ garage. He pushed the indicator up to signal a right turn, and just like its owner Mr. Mayhew had claimed, the left blinker turned on instead.  _There’s a joke about crossed signals in there somewhere,_  Arthur thought, rubbing his eyes with one hand as he jotted down notes with the other. Then he shook his head.  _No, that doesn’t count as any kind of joke._ _Some fruit is too low-hanging—_

 

The engine cut out. Mr. Mayhew had not mentioned this. As it wound down, Arthur recoiled on instinct before his conscious brain caught up, seeing the purple sparks attacking the dashboard and the wheel like termites going at wood.

 

He jumped out of the car, and as the engine noise died away, a new sound replaced it: a steady stream of unintelligible seething. Arthur ran over to the garage door opener to smack it, and as the door rolled up he saw black footprints burned into the street.  _Aw, jeez._

 

Arthur stuck his head out the door. “Lewis?” he called.

 

Lewis’s head whipped around to stare at him, and Arthur flinched: it was if those hollow eyes were stabbing him. After a few seconds, Lewis turned back around and continued stomping down the street. Wisps of flame flickered out from his glowing hair.

 

Kingsmen Mechanics could wait. Arthur pushed the door button again and let the garage close behind himself: it was time to pay Lewis back for last night. “Hey, Lewis!” he repeated, running toward him.

 

This time, Lewis didn’t look his way. As Arthur got closer, he saw Lewis’s hands clenched as fists, and the skin on them looking dangerously translucent. “Lewis, man,” he said, resting a hand on Lewis’s shoulder, “we—we gotta get you off the road, you’re gonna scare the crap outta all the kids going to school—”

 

“ _It’s ALL wrong, Arthur!_ ” Lewis shoved him away, and Arthur staggered back several steps until he’d gotten his balance. The alley Lewis had pushed him down was quieter than the street Lewis had been on, so Arthur counted that as a step up.

 

“What’s all wrong, Lewis?” he asked.

 

“What part of  _it’s ALL wrong_  don’t you get,  _estupido_?” Lewis was advancing upon him, his teeth gritted so tight they shook. He hissed through them, “I used to be able to  _do_  what I  _meant,_  but now everything’s going  _wrong_! I can’t make anything  _work_  with  _any_  of them!”

 

“So….” Arthur let himself lead Lewis down the alley. “Look, it’s like you told me last night, right? So you’re screwing up now—so what? You’re gonna be okay, man, like you said.”

 

It wasn’t the greatest speech, Arthur knew—but Lewis’s fists unclenched, his jaw detensed, and for a moment it seemed the speech had worked. Then, Lewis opened his mouth. “What are you  _talking_ about?”

 

“Uh….” Arthur knew the time to change tacks when he saw it. “Look, I get that it’s tough, but you’ve got a great family, right? You love 'em, and they love you, and that’s all still true. What’s changed?”

 

Lewis punched the wall to his right, and his fist went straight through the brick. “What a great question, Arthur,” he said. “What’s changed?”

 

A fool would have heard his voice and believed Lewis to have calmed down, but Arthur could hear the quivering of his words—foreshock before an earthquake. “Lewis?”

 

“What changed, Arthur?” Lewis took a step forward, and the skin sloughed off his hands, revealing the skeleton beneath.

 

“Lewis?”  _I said the wrong thing_ , he realized. “Lewis, I’m sorry—”

 

“What  _changed_ , Arthur?” The black burial suit grew up to cover his torso like a carapace, and ribs folded out from behind.

 

“I’m sorry, Lewis—” Arthur backed up.

 

“ _What changed, Arthur?_ ” Lewis’s face melted away, revealing the jawless skull that still expressed more rage than any scowl or grimace could. His eyes were solid magenta, ready to incinerate.

 

“Lewis, I—” Arthur tripped over his own feet and fell on his backside. He pushed himself back with his hands. “Lewis, I’m sorry!”

 

“ _What CHANGED, Arthur?_ ” The two skeletal hands were alight now, wreathed with violet flames fit to ignite the air itself. They dragged across the alley’s narrow walls, leaving black stripes in their wakes.

 

“ _Oh, God, Lewis, I’m sorry!_ ” Arthur’s back hit the wall at the end of the alley. Lewis towered above him like an executioner. “I’m  _sorry_ , Lewis, I'm—”

 

“ _WHAT CHANGED, ARTHUR?_ ”

 

* * *

 

“Mor—” Vivi yawned as she pushed Tome Tomb’s door open. She was pretty sure it didn’t help the image of 'committed book-seller’ that Duet was probably looking for, when she couldn’t even finish the word “morning”.

 

Duet didn’t look up from their book. It was still the same one from yesterday, and from what Vivi could see, they couldn’t have been any more than a tenth of the way through. “Mor to you as well,” they said.

 

With Duet’s flat tone and her own tired state, the implications of their statement took a while to settle in Vivi’s consciousness—but then they hit her system all at once like a caffeine syringe to the aorta. “You just told a  _jok_ _e?_ ”

 

Duet turned a page in their book.

 

“Jehoshaphat, Zerubbabel, and all the other guys from the Bible with really,  _really_  long names—you know what  _humor_  is!” Vivi grabbed her phone out of her pocket. “Can you say that again in a few seconds? I gotta record this, or no one will believe me.  _I_  won’t even believe me!”

 

“Mm.” Duet lifted his boots to rest on the desk, beneath which lay even more boxes. “These came in last night. Please sort them.”

 

 _How can this place possibly stay in business if he keeps buying books and never selling any?_  Vivi thought, but did not say. Instead, she said, “Sure thing, bossarino. Watch the Vivi work ethic at work!”

 

Just as she was sliding her phone back into its pocket, it rang.

 

“What the…” she mumbled, taking a look at the caller ID.  _Who on Earth would call me before nine o'clock in the morning—_

 

It was her own house’s landline. The one that didn’t work anymore because she’d stopped paying for it, because who used  _landlines?_  Who was using  _her landline?_

 

With an uncertain grimace on her face—she’d interacted long enough with the paranormal to know that calls from disconnected numbers usually didn’t give  _good_  news—she answered the call. “Hello?” she said.

 

“Call Arthur,” said the voice on the other end of the line—the voice which it took her a moment to place.

 

“ _Mystery?_ ” she blurted—then she glanced back at Duet, who was watching her with a disapproving stare, and she lowered her volume to a hiss. “How are you even  _calling_  from home? That number should be—”

 

“Used magic. Powered your landline with it. Shut up, listen, this is important—call Arthur’s phone.” His voice was terse, urgent. “Say these words. In fact, scream these words at the top of your lungs: 'You promised, Lewis!'”

 

“What—Mystery, what’s going on? Why should I call Arthur?”

 

“Do you  _want_  to lose yet another teammate?”

 

Vivi’s jaw dropped.

 

“Make the call,” Mystery said. “Right now.”

 

The line went dead.

 

She felt the phone slipping in her hand and squeezed as tight as she could, so that it dug into her palm.

 

“Interrupting work to chat with friends,” Duet said from behind her. “The Vivi work ethic, I assume.”

 

She looked slowly around at them. “I—I have to make a call,” she said. Duet’s eyes widened—maybe they’d seen some of the fear in her face.

 

She rushed outside, finding Arthur’s contact information on her phone.  _No. He can’t be. Not now, not when_ _Lewis_ _KNOWS—_

 

“Uh, hi, this is the voicemail of Arthur Kingsmen, and I guess if you’re hearing this then I can’t come to the phone, so….”

 

Vivi’s breath caught.  _Can’t_ _come to the phone_ _?_

 

“So yeah, just leave a message at the beep.”

 

The  _beep_  sounded like a heart monitor going flat.  _No,_  Vivi thought. When Arthur’s phone went to voicemail, it played the incoming message out loud. There was still a chance. She took a deep breath in.

 

* * *

 

“ _WHAT CHANGED, ARTHUR?_ ” Lewis screamed. The brick on either side melted where his hands touched, so that his fingers sank into the wall.

 

“I’m sorry, Lewis,” Arthur sobbed. Lewis was close enough, fiery enough, that the heat was crisping Arthur’s skin. “Please, I’m sorry—I thought you….”

 

Lewis’s skull was inches from Arthur’s face, and it was the last thing Arthur saw before tears filled his eyes, and he bent his face down into his chest. “I thought you forgave me,” he said in a voice so muddled that he could barely understand it himself.

 

A heaving noise came from above him—less like breathing, and more like bellows, like the furnace of Lewis’s rage being stoked. Arthur chanced a look upward and saw Lewis, his eyeholes still narrow and magenta with fury, his hands filled with molten brick—Arthur flinched and curled back into his fetal ball.

 

“What am I doing?”

 

Two soft, wet  _plops_  hit Arthur’s ears, as if a pair of massive tears had fallen to the alley floor. Uncurling just enough to clear his peripheral vision, Arthur saw the two bits of brick on the ground, melted into slag. He looked up to see Lewis’s eyeholes blank once more, and his chest heaving, and Arthur realized he’d been wrong. Maybe the furnace wasn’t being stoked, but extinguished.

 

“What am I doing?” Lewis looked at his hands, seeing bits of brick drip off them. “This isn't—this isn’t me. Is it?” He looked down like a child at Arthur. “Is this me?”

 

“Lewis,” Arthur said. “I don’t… I don’t know….”

 

Lewis wiped his hand on his forehead, smearing red on the alabaster skull. “I just—” He sighed, then reached out to Arthur. “Can I help you get—”

 

“ _Lewis, you PROMISED!_ ”

 

Both of them jumped. The scream had come from Arthur’s pocket. “ _You PROMISED, Lewis! Whatever you’re about to do, don’t you DARE, you hear me! Don’t you TOUCH Arthur!_ ”

 

Arthur’s hand had reached out to Lewis’s, but now Lewis’s hand jerked away. With a shuddering sound, almost a sob, Lewis turned and fled. His feet didn’t touch the ground.

 

“Arthur?” Vivi continued. “Arthur,  _please_  pick up, you gotta tell me you’re okay!”

 

Arthur fished the phone from his pants. “Vivi,” he said, “I’m okay. I’m fi—” His breath caught on a stray sob. “I’m fine.”

 

“Arthur, what the anti-moksha was that? All I know is that Mystery called and told me Lewis was gonna kill you, and that I had to stop him!”

 

“He—he wasn’t,” Arthur said, cradling the phone against his ear.

 

There was a pause from the other end. “What?”

 

“I mean, he was really angry for a little bit, but he stopped himself before you called.”

 

“Okay, that’s good, I guess.” Vivi breathed in deeply, then exhaled, then said, “Give him the phone. I need to talk to him.”

 

“He ran. Right—right after he heard your voice.”

 

“What? Where to?”

 

Arthur eyed the ground in front of himself. There were blackened footprints coming  _into_  the alleyway, but as Lewis had floated his way out, he wouldn’t be so easy to track. “I don’t know,” Arthur said.

 

“ _Dammit_ ,” Vivi growled. “Listen, get yourself somewhere safe, get yourself a coffee or something, calm yourself down. I’m going to find Lewis, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll calm down enough not to kill him so  _very_  hard he loops around the scale and comes back to life. Talk to you soon, okay?”

 

“Okay—” Arthur said, but she’d already hung up.

 

He forced his phone back into his pocket, and then pushed himself to his feet. Careful to avoid touching the hot walls, the hot footprints, or the molten brick on the ground, he trudged his way out of the alley and back toward Kingsmen Mechanics, feeling more like a zombie with each step.  _I don’t get it. I thought he forgave me._

 

* * *

 

Mystery let himself shrink back down to his smallest, doggy size with a sigh of relief. He’d only been partially shifted into his full form due to size constraints, so his hearing had hardly been perfect. Still, he’d heard Vivi’s screaming through the phone, and he had  _not_  heard any more shrill screams of pain from Arthur, the kind that would have come from him being incinerated. So Arthur was safe and unharmed. So everything was fine.

 

He groaned, trotted over to the sofa, and jumped up on it only to flop down into it a moment later. _Thank goodness. That could have been a disaster._

 

* * *

 

“Dammit,” Vivi said, turning on her heel and marching back into Tome Tomb. “Dammit, dammit, dammit.”

 

She shoved open the door, and Duet looked up at her. “Now that you’ve gotten your call out of the way, would you please get to—”

 

“Can’t. Gotta go deal with relationship issues,  _apparently_.”

 

“Skipping out on work again?” Duet frowned and leaned forward. “Vivi, this is becoming intolerable.”

 

“Take it out of my paycheck!” She was on her way out the door already, and waved her hand back at Duet. “Or fire me! Hold me accountable, but I have gotta go.”

 

Another second, and she was out the door, phone already in hand, loading up an app to detect otherworldly energies. “ _Someone’s_  gotta be held accountable for this  _disaster_ ,” she muttered.

 

* * *

 

_Alone._

 

He glided through Bluffstad’s streets, through yards and fences. He wondered if anyone could see him, but not enough to care. All he cared about was getting out of this town.

 

All he cared about was being  _alone_. With his thoughts, and nothing else. No one to hurt, nothing to sense— _nothing_ _._

 

He reached the edge of town, and passed the edge of town, and was finally in vaguely-defined, undeveloped grassland. Perfect.

 

Lewis planted his feet and thrust his hands into the air, and before him a massive violet inferno blazed into being. Within an instant its flames were forming into vague shapes, within another instant those shapes had become sharp, and when the fire dissipated off the top in less than a second, it left his mansion behind.

 

The front door creaked open, ready for entry, and Lewis did not waste time. He strode through the doors and slammed them shut behind him.

 

“Welcome back!” called the four-voiced chorus from all around him.


	15. The First-Case Scenario—Girl, You Must Be Tired (A)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lengthy wait! This chapter was very difficult to figure out, and it ended up being so long that I had to split it into two parts! (Seriously, it would have ended up somewhere around 15000 words by the end if I hadn't.) Here's the first of those parts, just for you!
> 
> Also, you might want to reread Interlude II: Gangnam Style to help get some context.

“Now is _not_ the time, phone!” Vivi muttered over her breath, marching down the street in no direction in particular as she stared at the screen and hoped for a signal. Her phone was running an app that Arthur had developed, and hooked to a peripheral he’d invented. In theory, it was meant to add up incoming radiant energy in all directions, filter out everything it could explain via normal means, and point her in the direction of whatever it _couldn’t_ explain.

 

In practice, it was showing her exactly nothing. Either something was wrong with the equipment, or Lewis wasn’t putting out enough ghostly energy to pick up. She refreshed it a few times, and kept seeing a red dot where she’d have preferred to see an arrow.

 

There weren’t many other people on the sidewalk at this time of morning, but the ones that were there gave Vivi odd looks as she let out a huge groan, clenching her fist hard enough to flex her phone in her hand. _Okay, Vivi, time for a different_ _plan of offense_ _. If I were Lewis, where would I go?_

 

It took her approximately half a second to realize how stupid a question that was to ask herself. “Ha,” she said, in a tone of voice which no one could confuse for laughter.

 

Then she blinked, as the world flashed purple before her eyes. For a moment, Vivi wondered if she were having a stroke—or maybe she’d popped a blood vessel from sheer pissed-off-ness—but then she remembered what exactly the color _purple_ had meant in the past several days.

 

She spun around on the spot, trying to look for a hint of magenta flame, or perhaps a decrepit rhythmic mansion looming in place of a relatively normal house. Nothing obvious caught her eye, but she noticed one of the other pedestrians pointing to the western hill bordering Bluffstad.

 

“What the _hell_ is that?” the man said, as Vivi ran to his side and looked in the direction he pointed. There, just visible over the top of a nearby house, was a dark roof pitch with a faint purple glow beneath it. She ran sideways, until she was looking to the side of the nearby house instead of at it, and there Lewis’s mansion was: tucked against the side of the hill in all its lurid glory. Vivi checked her phone again, as if she needed any more confirmation, and saw a big green arrow pointed straight toward the mansion.

 

“You’re seeing this, right?” the man added, as Vivi set off at a jog in that direction without answering him. “Hey, where are you going?”

 

Indeed, she _was_ seeing this, and the whole town would be following suit within ten minutes—and as much as Vivi usually loved it when the Mystery Skulls made the news, she had a funny feeling that _this_ would be a bad way to do it. She reconsidered her jog, turning it into a run.

 

After a few minutes, and the expenditure of too much of the wind in her lungs, Vivi dragged herself the last few feet to the mansion stairs. She heaved a few breaths, leaning on her knees to recuperate, then marched forward and pounded on the door with all of her remaining strength. “Lewis Hernandez, get down here _right now!_ ”

 

A picture frame appeared in the door. It had zero area at first, with its top and bottom sides touching each other, but it opened quickly like a window to another reality. The masked face of the Luchador jutted out, screaming with his eyes closed, “ _¡_ _Que te reviente_ _s, demonio!_ ” Then he opened his eyes, saw Vivi, and gasped, retreating back into his frame. “Angel! My—my apologies—if I had but realized it was you—”

 

Vivi raised a finger to his lips, and his stumbling apology wound down. “Can I try a little experiment?” she asked, and then tried it without waiting for his response: she leaned forward and plunged her hand through the frame. It felt, perhaps unsurprisingly, like she’d dipped it into wet paint, but she didn’t seem to be suffering any ill effects otherwise. “That is really interesting!” she said, turning it left and right and marveling at how two-dimensional it looked.

 

Then she reared back, and slapped her two-dimensional hand right across his two-dimensional face.

 

“What the—” he spluttered. “Why—you—!”

 

“I’m _not_ an angel,” Vivi said, pulling her hand back from the frame and examining it. It looked unchanged from before, but even so she shook it and wiped it on her sweater, as if it were covered in pond scum. “And if you still think Arthur’s a _demonio_ , then you can just dismantle that train track of thought.” She pointed up at the mansion. “Now get your quote _master_ unquote down here, _statim!_ ”

 

The Luchador’s mouth was still open to reply, but it closed as a manicured hand appeared on his shoulder. “I’d say you should probably let _us_ handle this one, dearest,” said the delicate voice of the Duchess, as her portrait unfurled to the Luchador’s right, followed quickly by the portraits of the Minister and the Prosecutor.

 

The Luchador growled, but it put Vivi less in mind of a predator making a threat, more in mind of a deflating balloon. “Don’t even get to be _angry_ anymore,” he grumbled, making his exit to stage right.

 

“That’s much better,” the Duchess said, pulling down on the bottom of the Luchador’s frame and letting it go: it zipped upward like a roller blind and disappeared on itself. “Now, what did you want to discuss, dear?”

 

“Oh, no no no, it is _not_ better.” Vivi crossed her arms and glowered. “I said I need to speak to Lewis. _You_ aren’t Lewis.”

 

“At best, a matter of opinion.” The Prosecutor pushed his glasses up his nose like some snob in one of Chloe’s terrible mangas. “Together, we represent the most positive three-quarters of Lewis’s personality—we are Lewis in his _best_ sense.”

 

“Well, it’s his worst sense that I’m having a problem with, so tough paninis. I need to talk to _all_ of Lewis, so get him down here!”

 

“Well….” The Minister grimaced. “You see, he’s, ahem, otherwise occupied upstairs….”

 

“You mean he’s too scared to talk to me?” A small revelation clicked in Vivi’s mind, and she wasn’t sure if it was gratifying or even more enraging. Probably both. “That’s why he’s sending his proxies, his cardboard _cutouts_ , to stall me instead.”

 

“'Cardboard cutouts’?” Although the Duchess’s gloved hand rose to cover her mouth as if shocked, her tone sounded more amused than anything. “Oh, Angel, are you saying our personalities don’t seem very _three-dimensional?_ ” she asked, leaning forward out of her frame, a smirk revealing itself behind that glove. “That perhaps we don’t have much _depth_?”

 

“The name is _VIVI!_ ”

 

The Duchess’s smirk vanished, and she reared back into her frame.

 

Vivi turned around and sat hard on the steps to the mansion, with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. “Whatever. Stay here if you want. I’ll just sit right here, until the _real_ Lewis shows up.”

 

This determination lasted for all of ten seconds, before she groaned and sank deeper into her slouch. “Oh, who am I kidding. Like I know anything about what ‘the real Lewis’ is supposed to be.”

 

After a pause, the Minister spoke up behind her, “I beg your pardon?”

 

She looked up at his face, which was upside-down in her vision. “Everything I keep seeing and hearing—from Arthur, from my own website, from the fricking _echoes_ from the fricking _past—_ keeps trying to tell me, 'Lewis, he’s such a great guy, so brave, loves his family, _adores_ his girlfriend, bestest buddy a person could have!’ Everything except the stupid stupid crap he actually _does!_ Needs my help to even get himself into his own house, tries to kill his best friend multiple times, comes pretty close to offing _me_ into the deal… and this is the guy I’m supposed to be ass over teakettle for?”

 

She sighed. “And then there are these other times when I can kinda almost _see_ it. When we danced the other night, it was… it was wonderful,” she admitted. “But then he goes back to being a ginormous _culchapeau_. Not even seventy two hours in, and I am already sick of this Phantom of the Opera _crap_. I just wish—” She slumped even deeper. “Maybe if I knew what I saw in him in the _first_ place. Maybe I could… sort this all out?”

 

Her head lolled back, and she stared vaguely at the portico above her. It occurred to her, looking up at the rotten wood, that she ought to have been scrambling for a ladder and a crowbar: prying off a slat to bring home and test against actual wood, seeing how the ectoplasmic variant measured up….

 

Vivi closed her eyes: the sight above her just wasn’t interesting enough. She had work to do. “Forget I said anything.” She pushed off with her hands and stood back up. “I’ll figure out how to give him the talking-to of his _un_ life, whether he wants me to or….” She tilted her head, eyebrows raised. “Why are you looking like that?”

 

For the three portraits wore hesitant expressions, as if making some difficult decision. Eventually they seemed to come to an agreement, and the Prosecutor cleared his throat, assuming a neutral mask once more. “It so happens that we may be able to help you in that regard.”

 

“… what?”

 

The Duchess spoke up. “You mentioned wanting to know what you first saw in the Master— _Lewis_ , that is,” she amended at Vivi’s glare. “You may not have access to memories of that first, fateful meeting, but we do. Would you like to learn the answer?”

 

Before she knew what she was doing, Vivi’s mouth was open and ready to yell “Yes!”—but she caught herself in time and clamped it back shut. There were other reasons for her being here, and they were several hells of a lot more important than indulging her curiosity. “How about no?”

 

“Hmm, how should I put this….” The Duchess smiled with tight lips, a dangerous expression Vivi often enjoyed on her own face. “You’re not getting in to see the Master at this time. So you can leave, or you can sit here and learn something useful. Your choice.”

 

Vivi gritted her teeth, but the Duchess was right: the door was locked, and she wouldn’t be getting in that way… _that way_. “Ten minutes,” she said, still frowning. “I’ll give you ten minutes to show me something really good.” She sat down, hoping she wouldn’t enjoy it too much.

 

“Well, let’s get this show on the door, then!” With a self-satisfied little laugh, the Duchess reached out of her portrait and pulled open a new picture frame, as if unrolling a royal decree. Displayed on the frame was not a portrait, but TV static: it persisted for several seconds, until the Minister fiddled with what appeared to be a knob on the side of the frame. Then, the static gradually resolved into what looked like a camera feed shot from first person.

 

The first person in question seemed to be in a kitchen, judging by their view— _his_ view, Vivi reminded herself: this had to be Lewis—of a tortilla sizzling in oil atop a stove. It wasn’t just audio-visual: Vivi could smell the oil cooking, and she took an instinctual deep breath. However, the bottom of the screen was occupied by two large hands, one crossed over the other, bouncing up and down to a beat that Vivi could only barely hear, but could instantly recognize. “Oh, for flick’s sake,” she muttered.

 

“ _Naji no tassa, oh no inga joging yoja, ba_ …” The next few syllables came through as mumbles, before Lewis’s voice picked up again with, “ _Joging yoja!_ ”

 

Vivi pushed her jaw back up with her hand. “Is that Gangnam Style? Is he rapping along—is he _dancing_ along to Gangnam Style?” she sputtered, noticing a small translucent silhouette in the lower-right hand corner, which she guessed represented Lewis’s sense of proprioception. He seemed to be doing the cowboy dance.

 

“Eheheheheh, well,” the Duchess tittered, before leaning into the Prosecutor’s frame and hissing, “ _Why are we showing her this?_ ”

 

“She liked it well enough the last time,” the Prosecutor said with an unconcerned nod of the head. “And you know she heard you, right?”

 

“He _is_ ,” Vivi said, as the Duchess returned to her own frame and tried to compose her expression. “He _is_ dancing and rapping. That is the worst Korean I have ever… are you telling me he was a _dork_?”

 

The Duchess could only offer a sheepish shrug.

 

“Semi-murderous, undead, romantic _dork_.” Vivi sighed. “I don’t know whether I had the best taste in boyfriends or the worst, but it was definitely one of those two extremes.”

 

The singing-slash-rapping-slash-mumbling was too painful to focus on, and Vivi’s attention looked for other targets—and quickly found them. There were numbers across the bottom of the screen:  73 on the left, 13 on the right, like some FPS-styled heads-up-display. The numbers were even more translucent than the silhouette, so that Vivi could barely see them. “What are those?” she asked, not looking up at any of the portraits.

 

“You haven’t figured them out?” said the Prosecutor above her. “You will soon.”

 

“ _Eyyyy_ ,” Lewis sang, flipping the tortilla, “ _sexy lady!_ ”

 

“Wait,” said a distant voice, one which Vivi couldn’t immediately place, “is Lewis adopted?”

 

“Wha—”

 

The field of view swerved, as Lewis in the past turned to look at the kitchen door and its window, only to see _several_ faces watching him: Vivi recognized one of them as her own. The words “ _HUMILIATION ALERT_ ” flashed over the screen, and Lewis let out a gasp which sounded like, “Gah!”

 

So, she’d been the one to ask if he was adopted. “ _That’s_ what I opened with?” Vivi-of-the-present said, smacking her face. “I’m a mute tailbone.”

 

“ _BALANCE FAILURE: THIS WILL SUCK_ ” flashed on the screen, as the field of view pitched back and up to face the ceiling. Apparently Lewis had stumbled in his embarrassment, and none of his arm flailing could right him. With a significant crash, he struck the floor.

 

“Ow,” Vivi said, wincing in sympathy.

 

Then the pots and pans started falling on top of him from the cabinet above. “Ow,” she said. “Ow, ow, ow, ow.”

 

The screen was flashing red, and the smell coming through was not of oil burning—it smelled more fleshy and metallic, like… people. Vivi shuddered, seeing flames dart in the peripheral vision, and the wood of the kitchen seemed to be splintering—

 

“ _Pulse_.”

 

And then, with the one word from Mr. Pepper, the view was cleared. The flames disappeared, and the flesh-smell vanished just as quickly. The two numbers from before became much more opaque and expanded, almost filling the screen. Now they were 121 and 25, but as Vivi watched, the both of them fell rapidly.

 

“Do you understand now?” the Minister asked. “It’s important that you do.”

 

“Pulse,” Vivi repeated. “That’s literally his beats per minute, and that—” she pointed at the second number “—is probably his breaths per minute, and _that_ ….” She pointed at the silhouette in the corner, which was getting to its feet, before she let her hand fall. “That is some impressive micromanagement.”

 

She took a step back and looked at the portraits. “Okay, there’s something I’m missing. No one keeps track of their pulse _all_ the time. Who _does_ that?”

 

The three of them hesitated for several seconds before the Duchess said, “Dear… er, so far, in your present-day interactions with Lewis, you may have noticed he has _slight_ difficulties containing his temper—please don’t snort, it’s rude. In any case, why do you think that is?”

 

“Well, traumatic deaths make angry ghosts, that’s kinda how it is.” Vivi shrugged. “And he had a real Big Mac of a death, so no matter _how_ collected he’d have been when he was alive, he….”

 

She trailed off as the Duchess rotated her head from side to side, ever so slightly. “You’re telling me he was always like that.”

 

The Minister nodded.

 

“Nuhnuhnuhnuhno, like _that_. With the attempted murder, intimidation attempts, the whole puppy pen. You’re trying to tell me that _that’s_ who I fell for?”

 

The Minister made to nod again, but stopped. “Um. Well….”

 

“Put it this way,” the Duchess interjected. “Our wrestling friend the Luchador has always been a… rather _puissant_ influence. And for a while, the Peppers gave him tools to subdue such passions, such as—”

 

“Deep breaths.” Vivi slapped her hand to her forehead. “And keeping track of his pulse.”

 

“Which he cannot do…” the Prosecutor began.

 

“… _now that he’s a ghost_ ,” Vivi finished, speaking simultaneously with the Prosecutor. “So… semi-murderous, undead, romantic dork with unresolvable anger management issues.” She sighed, noticed a loose-looking plank of wood in the wall, and began fiddling with it. “Well, I’ve figured out that I didn’t have the _best_ taste in boyfriends, certainly.”

 

“Shush-shush-shush, you’ll miss things!” the Duchess hissed.

 

“Howard?” said the Vivi in the memory.

 

She was staring at a closed door, and if present-Vivi had to guess, she was doing an endocism. She’d come up with the name herself, of course. “Howard Rothman? Are you there?”

 

It was a subtle thing, but as present-Vivi watched, she detected signs of flustration in her past self’s face; past-Vivi kept glancing at the camera, or more accurately at Lewis’s face. Or, maybe, it was more the general torso area she was looking at… or maybe the legs. There was a lot of ground to cover. “I’m Vivi,” she said, “Vivi Lee. I was wondering if my friends and I could come in and meet you. Is that okay?”

 

This question was answered with nothing at all. In the bottom right corner of the screen, present-Vivi saw a timer count down from twenty as the silence dragged out: when the number reached zero, past-Lewis cut in with a sarcastic, “Well, I’m convinced. Pardon me, I need to get in there.”

 

But as he stepped forward, Vivi called out at the door, “We have a puppy! Do you like puppies?”

 

The door slammed open, revealing not a pantry but a dusty old hallway, shifting and shimmering as if viewed through haze. Lewis stopped short.

 

“Well,” Vivi said, looking up at Lewis, “you’re convinced.”

 

Mr. Pepper piped up from behind: “Are we… are we going to be able to use that pantry?”

 

“I’ll let you know.” And there it was: that dangerous, adventurous smile, on past-Vivi’s face. “Come on, Art,” she said, “we’re gonna meet little Howard. And you!”

 

Her hand shot out to grab Lewis’s, and he flinched at the contact. Now Vivi looked certain of herself, even smug; instead, Lewis seemed to be the flustered one. He let out a little questioning “Me?” and his heartrate nosed upward.

 

“You wanted me to show you a ghost, didn’t you? When are you gonna get a better chance than this?”

 

“Uh,” present-Vivi said, still idly flexing the plank of wood, “when did he say that?” Well, she certainly hoped it looked idle.

 

“We said you might miss things,” the Minister said through, incongruously enough, a mouthful of popcorn he’d procured from somewhere. “We’re not rewinding.”

 

Vivi shrugged, and kept flexing the board.

 

“Well… all right,” past-Lewis said. “Impress me.”

 

Past-Vivi smiled up at him. “I can promise that.”

 

She walked through the door first, and he let himself get pulled along. On his silhouette in the corner of the screen, the hand she was holding glowed a warm blue.

 

* * *

 

The door slammed shut behind the four of them. The blond one—Arthur, if Lewis remembered correctly—let out a shivery groan. “Why does that always have to happen? I mean, _every_ time. Can’t we just bring a doorstop one of these times?”

 

“Sure, a ghost-resistant doorstop. You build it, we’ll use it. Vital paranormal equipment!” Vivi hung back a bit to punch Arthur on the shoulder with her left hand; the right was still holding Lewis’s left. “Re _lax_ , Art. He may have been around for a hundred years, but he’s still an eight year old.”

 

“You know, when you put it like that, it sounds _totally convincing_.” Arthur punched her back, more lightly than she’d done to him.

 

“You know it does.” And with nothing more than the slightest pause, she looked up at Lewis and said, “So, you’re adopted, huh.”

 

It was a bit like being slapped in the face—the question didn’t really hurt, but it did stop him cold as he tried to re-combobulate himself. _Pulse,_ _breathing_ _._

 

“What’s that _like_?” she asked, stopping with him. “Is it weird? Is it _still_ weird, or do you get used to it?” Lewis saw that Arthur had his face in his hand, and judging by his trembling he was either sobbing or trying to conceal an outburst of laughter.

 

“Yes,” Lewis finally said, “you do get used to it.”

 

“Your mom said you hadn’t taken the last name yet.” Vivi had on a big, attentive expression like she would pull out a notepad and pencil any second. “Why is that?”

 

 _Pulse._ _Breathing_ _._ He was intensely aware of his fingers on his right hand, digging into the palm as if trying to break through.

 

“Jesus _Christ_ , Vivi!” Arthur choked out. “Save it for the _second_ date!” He doubled over and howled with laughter.

 

“You!” Vivi punched him again in the shoulder.

 

“Sorry, sorry!” Arthur took several quick, deep breaths and stood up somewhat straighter. “It’s a thing she does.” He patted her arm awkwardly. “Apologize to the nice young man, Vivi.”

 

She grunted and kept walking.

 

He let his right hand relax, and followed cautiously behind. However narrow the corridor actually _was_ , it felt even narrower with the scant lighting, and he hunched forward for fear of hitting his head on—

 

* * *

 

_CRASH._

 

Out of the corner of Vivi’s eye, the Duchess looked up from the video, in which she’d been engrossed. “What was that—Angel? Where did you go?”

 

“ _Vivi!_ ” Vivi responded pretty much out of reflex, and took another swing with the loose plank she’d pried off Lewis’s house, leading to another _CRASH_. The window in front of her had been in a sorry state before, but now it was well on its way to non-existence.

 

“What the—what in _BLAZES_?” the Minister spluttered. “What are you doing?”

 

“Let’s just say I had a—” Vivi swung one last time, and the last of the glass shattered at the plank’s impact “— _breakthrough_.” She gave the window’s grill a few swipes to clear it out of the way, then tossed the plank through the hole, which was at last now person-sized. “Plus, I think I’ve seen enough of that video to make my judgment.”

 

“You promised to watch for _ten minutes!_ ” The Prosecutor tapped his watch with stupendous indignation. “It has _not_ been ten minutes!”

 

“About that.” Vivi faced the three of them, forcing a fierce smile to her face that didn’t come naturally: her mouth wanted to default to a grim line. “You know how they say, 'when in Rome’? Well, I appear to be in Liartown, so… toodles!”

 

She backed up three steps, then took those three steps at a run and jumped up to the window as best as she could.

 

An Olympian she was not, but she at least got her arms through the window and a decent footing on the outside wall. With a few kicks, she pushed herself up and rolled all the way through to the inside. She stood and brushed the stray wood and glass shards from her sleeves: thankfully, her sweater had kept them away from her arms. Body armor had never been more comfortable.

 

 _All right. So I don’t know Lewis_ _super-well_ _, so I don’t have any great insights on where_ _in this mansion he’ll be._ She looked up and down the hallway she’d landed in: with the exception of the newly broken window’s fresh helping of natural light, it was as dark and dusty as it had been every other time she’d been inside. _So is there anything I DO know?_

 

She chose a direction and started walking. _Arthur ran into him in the basement last time, but that’s where Lewis WANTED Arthur to find him… so he could kill him. Not to mention, Lewis knows we found him in the basement last time, and he doesn’t want me to…._

 

She would have stopped short from the realization, but that would have defeated the purpose. _Lewis doesn’t want me to find him. And he’s not thinking very hard about it. I just have to pick a direction, and if he doesn’t want me going there, then it’s probably the right way._ She surged forward.

 

A few footsteps later, and she was in the grand entryway, with her eyes on the stairway. _Basic potential energy: it is more difficult to go up than down. Therefore…._ She started up the stairs at a jog.

 

As she crested onto the upper balcony, the three portraits she’d been speaking to appeared on the wall. “Now, dearest, don’t be too hasty!” the Duchess exclaimed, concern evident in her voice. “You have so much more to see, after all, and we don’t want you getting—!”

 

Vivi picked a door and blew right past them, slamming it shut as she walked through to the corridor beyond. She took twenty steps inside, and when no portrait showed up to talk her out of it, she turned on the ball of her foot and walked back to the door.

 

“Ah, _there_ you are! Getting lost, is what I was about to say. Now, why don’t you settle down and—no, wait, please stop!”

 

Vivi had been reaching toward another doorknob: at the Duchess’s exclamation, she grabbed it and pulled the door open. Sure enough, she didn’t have to walk for more than a minute before finding another flight of stairs to jog up.

 

“This is pointless, you know,” the Prosecutor said, his portrait appearing in the hallway at the top of the stairs. “We know you’re trying to find the Master, but he can rearrange these hallways at will. You won’t succeed. So why don’t you just _sit_ down—” he tapped the wall beside him, and it opened up as another viewscreen “—and learn something interesting?”

 

“If it’s so pointless, then why are you trying to stop me?” Vivi looked right and jogged forward, leaving the Prosecutor behind.

 

“You’re not even going the right way!” he called after her.

 

Vivi increased her pace. “Thanks!”

 

“Damn it!”

 

 _Wow_ , she thought, coming across a third stairwell. _They are really bad at this._ She quickly ascended to the fourth floor, feeling her breaths coming heavier. _Come on, adrenaline high,_ _where the_ _butts are you?_

 

“You need to stop right _now!_ ”

 

The corridor at the top of the stairs was plastered with wall-to-wall viewscreens, all of them playing the same memory—but at slightly different timings. Vivi heard a thousand footsteps like rainfall, and when any words came out, they were immediately echoed to incoherence. At the end of this corridor was a T-intersection, and at that intersection was the Luchador’s portrait.

 

 _So much for controlling his temper._ “No, _you_ need to stop!” she yelled, stomping up the corridor to shout at him face-to-face. “Someone is going to _die_ pretty soon, and it’s gonna be because _you_ flew off the monkey bars and _killed_ them! So if you can’t sort out your mess, then how about you just pack up this fecal haunted house of yours and get your _death_ the hell out of my life!”

 

“ _Shut up!_ ” the Luchador yelled.

 

“Oh, real mature— _you_ shut up!” she yelled back.

 

“Angel!” called the Duchess from down the hallway on the left: Vivi shot her a glare, and she amended herself to, “Vivi. Perhaps you’d like to sashay over here to speak with us?” She indicated the Prosecutor and Minister, whose frames were at her sides, with tilts of her head. “I promise we can make better conversationalists!”

 

Her tone seemed too bright and cheerful—too much stress hidden. Vivi squinted, and noticed something on the carpet. More squinting, and a few cautious steps forward, brought the something into focus: a square outline in the middle of the hallway. A trapdoor.

 

“No, thanks.” She looked up at the Duchess and forced another smirk. “Not falling for that one again, figuratively or otherwise.”

 

She turned around, and stopped cold. The Knight was there, one hand on the pommel of its sheathed sword, walking steadily toward her with great clanking steps. She hadn’t heard it sneaking up behind her at all. It didn’t seem fair, let alone logical.

 

“Terribly sorry,” said the Minister, as Vivi backed away from the advancing armor, looking for an opening. “But this is _non-negotiable._ You will let yourself be escorted from the premises at once, or—”

 

“Or what?” Vivi sneered, turning around. “You’ll _kill_ me?”

 

She planted her feet, several inches away from the trapdoor’s outline, and stared at the three portraits. The three of them stared back at her, anger twitching in their faces.

 

Then the Luchador’s portrait appeared on the wall adjacent, and it appeared _huge_ , pushing the others to the side. “ _No more warnings!_ ” he yelled. “ _Leave NOW!_ ”

 

A rope dropped down from the ceiling before him, and he reached out of the frame and yanked with all his force—and instead of the small square trapdoor opening, the entire hallway floor dropped out in front of Vivi with a resounding _k-thunk_ , like slamming a door in a cathedral.

 

The edge fell away right beneath the arch of her foot, putting half her body weight over the hole: she pinwheeled her arms frantically until one of them hit the wall, allowing her to plant her palm on it and push herself backward onto a solid footing. She panted, gazing down across the lightless abyss, then glared right back up at the Luchador. “You can’t actually be trying to—”

 

A hand found her back, and shoved hard.

 

Vivi’s arms flailed again, but she knew she was past the point of no return. She twisted around and saw the Knight with its left arm outstretched: then she plunged into the void. Terror took control of her lips, and she screamed.

 

“ _T_ _e tengo!_ ”

 

Before she could even imagine what sorts of awful things might end her fall, she was caught in two huge arms. She looked up and saw Lewis’s skull, its flaming pompadour alight on top. “Sorry, so sorry!” he stammered, placing Vivi on the floor as quickly as he could. His eyesockets were wider than she’d yet seen them.

 

Vivi looked around. She’d been caught in a large, open room, but she didn’t see any windows: if she had to guess, she’d just been sent to the basement. Terror immediately ceded control of her lips to fury. “What the _Naraka_ was that?” she yelled, directing her attention like a laser back on Lewis.

 

He started backing away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

 

“Oh, didn’t mean to _kill me?_ ” She advanced on him, feeling as though she were brandishing a sword his way. “Well, doesn’t _that_ just summarize the past few days!”

 

“I’m not trying to kill anyone anymore!” he yelled, still floating backward. “But you need to stop making me so angry, it’s not safe!”

 

“Oh, like that’s _my_ problem? I don’t care if you’re the deadest, maddest ess-oh-bee to float the Earth! You still don’t get to take it out on _me!_ ”

 

“I’m serious, you need to _stop!_ ”

 

“Or maybe I’ll just yell some more! How’s _that_ sound?” She jabbed at him with her index finger, and he flew away faster. She looked around him, and saw that his back was aimed straight at a closed door. “Oh, don’t you _dare—_ ”

 

She broke into a run, but he reached the door before she did, and floated straight through without opening it, disappearing from sight. Momentum kept her running regardless, and she slammed into the door with her full body. “ _LEWIS!_ ” she screamed, wrenching it open.

 

There was no one on the other side. He was gone again.

 

A few seconds of furious panting later, the thought percolated through her brain that she’d just been face to face with the spirit she was looking for, and somehow she hadn’t brought up Arthur once. _Oh, for the love of—!_ She slammed her fist into the wall, taking a knee as the several flights she’d climbed caught up with her.

 

 _Okay, focus. Good news first: he’s probably going to be back on the top floor, now that I’m_ _in_ _the—_ she punched the wall again— _now that I’m_ _in_ _the_ _basement_ _._ Vivi looked up at the ceiling. _Assuming this dumb mansion stays the same height, that’s a minimum of five flights of stairs I’ve gotta_ _climb._

 

She pushed herself to her feet, clenching her fist and trying to will the adrenaline back to her, but it seemed to be on the way out. She took several deep breaths to steady herself _._ “Come on, adrenal glands, this is your big moment,” she whispered. “Don’t take the day off! Own the stage!”

 

Nothing happened in her muscles. She made a few staggering steps forward, wincing at the thought of five more flights of stairs, and trying to ignore a new thought as it began to swell in her head.

 

_This_ _should be fun._ _It usually is._

 

She walked through the hallway, trying not to trudge, until she found a staircase to the first floor. Leaning heavily on the bannister, she pushed herself up the steps.

 

_But it isn’t._ _Not this time._

 

Halfway up, she let herself sink back down. She’d really exerted herself a lot these past several minutes, and her back was feeling sore again, and her body wasn’t helping her like it ought to have.

 

_Because it’s not fun._

 

Almost everything about this should have been the highlight of Vivi’s week. She was breaking into a ghostly mansion to confront the malevolent spirit within, braving labyrinthine passageways and spectral obstacles. It should have been fun—except for the not-so-little detail of Arthur’s life being at stake. Along with all the other not-so-little details.

 

Her head slumped into her hands, and she hoped it wasn’t just because she wasn’t strong enough to keep it upright—but really, she knew better. “Selfish,” she muttered. “Stupid and selfish.” Apparently, she could only perform at par if she was having a good time, and not just because it actually _mattered_.

 

“So, what will you do when you catch the ghost?”

 

For a moment, this only registered as an excellent and apropos question. What _would_ she do? Apparently, simple yelling didn’t get through to Lewis very quickly, and it didn’t even make her feel that much better. Not for every long, anyway.

 

Then she realized that the voice that had said that belonged to Lewis. Better yet, although the sound was faint, she could tell that it came from deeper into the basement. It wasn’t a huge motivator, but it was enough to get her off her feet and walking back down the stairs.

 

The voice paused for a few seconds, during which time Vivi couldn’t exactly locate it: she rushed back into the open room into which she’d fallen and looked around, craning her ears to listen for any clues. Then, a different voice returned: hers. “What?” it said. “Catch?”

 

Vivi groaned: this had to be another part of Lewis’s stupid memory, on yet another stupid portrait. And yet it was better than nothing, so she followed the voice to its source: a closed door. She opened it, then paused.

 

 _Well,_ she thought, mouth slightly open, _it’s not a portrait._

 

“Yeah, catch,” said a Deadbeat wearing a wig of Lewis’s hair from when he was alive. The voice was an exact reproduction: if there was one thing these Deadbeats were good at, it was their vocals. “You know, like Ghostbusters. Do you have a containment vault somewhere? Something like that?”

 

The question was directed at a second Deadbeat: this one was blue, hovered rather closer to the ground than Lew-Beat, and—just in case those clues weren’t obvious enough—wore pink glasses and a blue wig like Vivi’s hair. It also wore an indignant expression which, Vivi thought, probably matched how she’d look if someone had called her a Ghost _buster_. She could add acting to the list of the Deadbeats’ talents.

 

She (or maybe he, or it: who knew with these little ghosts?) stopped short in front of Lew-Beat, forcing him to stop short, and rounded on him. “What kind of psychopaths do you take us for?” she demanded, glaring up at him.

 

Lew-Beat spread his stubby arms in a gesture of confusion, and Vi-Beat continued her tirade: “We’re not going to 'bust’ Howie; we’re going to _talk_ to him. We’re going to _help_ him. He’s _eight_.”

 

The sounds of clapping, as well as some high-pitched “Woo!”s, distracted Vivi from the scene: she glanced to her left and saw a row of Deadbeats sitting in folding chairs, raptly watching the actors. _So this is what Deadbeats do in their spare time. Put on plays._ It was too weird to question: Vivi just found a chair and sat.

 

“All right,” said Lew-Beat, his teeth clenching a little. “And maybe we can ask Howie if _he’s_ adopted too.”

 

“Burn!” squeaked one audience-Deadbeat, before his fellows shushed him.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course he isn't—we would have read about it,” Vi-Beat shot back.

 

Vivi facepalmed. _Like that’s_ _gonna get through to him._ She tried to remember what she’d half-watched in the memory from before, and to piece together what she could from her own memories: she vaguely recalled a case at Pepper Paradiso with a ghost-child named Howie who made people sad, but didn’t remember much of it. Lewis must have featured heavily.

 

The two actor Deadbeats glared at each other, until a third Deadbeat—orange, taller than Vi-Beat but shorter than Lew-Beat, and with spiky blonde hair: no prizes for guessing who this was—pushed himself in between them. “ _Oof_ ,” Ar-Beat said in a sympathetic tone, looking up at Lewis. “Sorry, man. You’ve got the adopted button, she’s got the 'Ghostbusters’ button.” He brought his stumpy little hand to his mouth and whispered, “I don’t get what her problem is. It’s a great movie.”

 

Vi-Beat gasped. “Betrayal!” With a grandiose flourish, she pointed back at the door which Vivi, and presumably the Mystery Skulls of the past, had walked through. “Get out.”

 

Ar-Beat’s face lit up—not just in a smile, but literally. “Really?” he asked.

 

“No.”

 

“Awwwww.” The smile turned to an exaggerated pout.

 

The audience laughed, and both Vi-Beat and Lew-Beat cracked smiles. Vivi cracked one of her own: that was _classic_ Arthur. Always pretending like he was so down in the dumps, just to get a laugh.

 

A fourth, white Deadbeat barked from his position in front of the group: it wore a collar, small yellow glasses, and a black-and-red hairdo. “Mystery’s right,” said Vi-Beat, “we should keep moving. Come on, gang.” She made to follow Mys-Beat’s lead.

 

“You never let me leave.”

 

Vi-Beat turned back: Ar-Beat’s exaggerated pout was gone, replaced by an abject weakness in his face, like he’d lost the strength to keep smiling. “You never let me… why don’t you let me…” he mumbled. Exaggerated tears flowed out of the Deadbeat’s face.

 

“Arthur?” Vi-Beat said, rushing to his side as Ar-Beat sagged down the wall, as if his legs had given out from under him. “So either you are _really_ committed to this joke, or what Howie’s doing with making people sad just got to you too.”

 

Ar-Beat kept sobbing.

 

“Come on, Arthur, you gotta fight this thing,” Vi-Beat said, her voice steadily rising in volume. She grabbed Ar-Beat by the shoulders. “It’s not even _real_ sadness, it’s just some ghost stuff messing with your tear ducts. You’re stronger than this!”

 

“Please stop yelling,” Ar-Beat choked out. “Let me go.”

 

Vi-Beat froze. Tears started welling in her eyes. “Come on, you mannequin, don’t let it get _me_ too….” She leaned into the wall to stay upright. To her side, Mys-Beat began to keen.

 

Vivi looked around the impromptu theater to see not a dry eye in the place. She saw two Deadbeats leaning into each other, one’s stubby arm as far around the other’s back as it could go. Then she noticed, to her disappointment, that she was leaning forward on the edge of her seat. A Deadbeat to her left offered her a bag of popcorn, and she almost accepted it.

 

“Pulse,” whispered Lew-Beat, to himself. The other three Deadbeats didn’t seem to hear. “Breathing,” he whispered. Then he stepped forward and said, “Excuse me,” gently pushing Vivi out of the way. He crouched down to Ar-Beat’s level—well, Vivi was pretty sure he’d be crouching if he had legs. “Look at me.”

 

Ar-Beat looked up at him.

 

“What’s it like?” Lew-Beat asked. “How does the sadness feel?”

 

“Like….” Ar-Beat sucked in a great breath.

 

“Easy now, deep breaths,” Lew-Beat said.

 

“Like something really heavy in my chest.” Ar-Beat wiped some of the tears from his face, but they were quickly replaced.

 

“Like an elephant standing on you?”

 

“Sure, like an elephant.”

 

“No, really.” Lew-Beat grabbed one of Ar-Beat’s hands. “Think of it like an elephant on your chest. Not something inside you, but something external you can work against. Can you do that?”

 

“Yeah?” Ar-Beat replied, not sounding too confident.

 

“And just picture that elephant picking up its leg. Picture it just walking off. Just walking away, it can just walk away. Okay?”

 

“Okay,” Ar-Beat said, and closed his. “Just walk away… just walk away….” He took a few deep breaths, and wiped his face again: this time, no new tears came to his face. “Hey, it worked—ewww!”

 

Mys-Beat had stopped keening, and had started licking Ar-Beat’s face. “Mystery, that’s gross,” Ar-Beat laughed, pushing him away. “But thanks anyway. I’m okay.”

 

A collective “ _awwww_ ” rose from the audience, as Ar-Beat rose to what would have been his feet if he were actually Arthur. “Well, that was weird,” he said, “and totally unrelated to my actual emotional state.” He turned back to Lew-Beat. “Thanks. You’re good at the whole advice-giving thing.”

 

“I’m hoping to be a psychologist when I grow up—well, when I get older,” Lew-Beat replied.

 

“I was about to say, how much more growing up are you planning on?” Ar-Beat chuckled, then turned his attention to Vi-Beat, who was still crying up a veritable storm, her face nestled in the wall. “Vivi, you all right?”

 

“I’m fine,” she sobbed. “Just give me a minute.”

 

Lew-Beat leaned forward. “Do you want to talk about it?”

 

“What’s there to talk about?” She looked up at him through big, translucent tears. “It’s not like I’m actually sad, right?”

 

“Then we could….” He sighed. “Okay, I’ll be honest: most of my advice is meant for girls under the age of ten. Unless you want me to do the voices in a storybook, I’m running out of ideas.” She chuckled.

 

“Oh!” Ar-Beat beamed again. “You should carry her!”

 

Vi-Beat’s eyebrows pinched together. “Don’t you _dare_.”

 

“Full-on bridal carry. I can take pictures!”

 

“Arthur, seriously, stop.” Vi-Beat pushed herself off the wall. “You’re making it weird.”

 

“But I’m not making it _sad_ , am I?” Ar-Beat winked. “How ya feeling?”

 

She sniffed. “Better, I think. Thank you—both of you,” she amended, looking up at Lew-Beat.

 

He raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t really help you.”

 

“You helped Arthur.” She smiled, then spun around to face the other way. “All right, gang, back on target. We’ve got a ghost to talk to.” The four of them walked—well, floated, but in such a way as to represent walking—down the hallway to its end, and out of sight.

 

The lights in the hallway brightened, as if they’d reached the end of a movie, and the audience burst into applause and high-pitched cheers. Several rose bouquets flew over Vivi’s head, landing in the hall where the actors had been.

 

“Where’s the rest of it?” Vivi demanded, standing up. All around her, audience Deadbeats shushed her. “No, really! That’s not the end of the memory! How does it end?”

 

She rushed down the hallway after the actors, but when she reached the bend and turned through it, they were nowhere in sight: either they’d kept going or simply vanished. She grit her teeth, decided to bet on the first option, and continued down the next hallway. And the next, when she came to another bend. And the next, and the next, and—

 

“Found you!”

 

She found herself face-to-face with the Duchess. “So this is where you’ve been,” she said, “sneaking around the basement like some common vagabond!”

 

To her sides were the Minister’s and Prosecutor’s portraits. She spun around to escape, but before she could move, a fourth wall rose from the ground, bearing the portrait of the Luchador. She was trapped in an instant oubliette.

 

“Well, that’s the end of that,” the Minister said, snapping his Bible shut. “No more disturbing the Master’s composure for you, young miss.”

 

“Let me _out!_ ” Vivi pounded the wall on which the Luchador’s portrait resided, but it seemed unlikely to give way any time soon. “I need to talk to Lewis!”

 

“Why?” The Prosecutor narrowed his eyes. “So you can continue to verbally assault him over involuntary defenses against your aggression? You may as well fault an immune system for murdering bacteria.”

 

“No, that’s not—” Vivi stopped herself from saying that she’d rather yell at Lewis about almost killing _Arthur_. Something, or rather everything, told her that this wouldn’t earn her any points with the portraits.

 

“What then?” the Duchess asked, leaning far out of her frame to glare up close into Vivi’s face. Her usually-perfect makeup was smeared around her eyes, giving her mascara the appearance of tears, or war paint. “What _are_ you going to yell at him about? And how exactly do you think it will help, you self-righteous little _gremlin_?”

 

Vivi didn’t have to stop herself from saying anything this time: she couldn’t even start to say anything. _So, what will you do when you catch the ghost?_

 

“ _Enough talk!_ ” the Luchador roared, as was his wont. “ _You are going to leave this_ _mansion right now!_ ”

 

“That’s not a demand,” the Prosecutor added, “that’s a statement.” A rope unfurled from the ceiling, and he grabbed it quite deliberately. “This room has been internally relocated to directly above the front patio. The floor will open beneath you, you will be placed on that patio, and you will not enter this building again. Do you understand?”

 

 _And then we’ll be back at square_ _one. Or, really, square negative one thousand._ “I understand,” she said, staring at the Luchador—or more accurately, behind the Luchador. She’d never paid the backdrop of his portrait much attention, but it seemed slightly amorphous. And judging by her earlier experiment with the slap….

 

“I understand better than any of you,” she repeated, now turning her gaze right to the Luchador’s eyes. “And that’s why I can’t let you stop me, not now. Especially _you_ , you….” She cast her mind around for a suitable insult. “Impotent pantywaist! Now let me see Lewis!”

 

“You _miserable little—_ ” The Luchador reached way forward to grab her collar and yank her in. “ _LEWIS DOESN’T WANT TO SEE YOU!_ ”

 

“But he _needs_ to see me!” She bent her legs, and extended her middle and index fingers. “And I _need_ to see him! Because this has to end—right here, right now!”

 

Those two fingers flew up, and she jabbed the Luchador in his eyes. He roared in pain, rearing back. It was exactly the opening she needed: she grabbed the left and right sides of the frame, and pulled herself into the space behind the portraits.

 

“Wait, you’re not supposed to go in—”


	16. The First-Case Scenario—Girl, You Must Be Tired (B)

It felt like diving into warm water, but slightly more viscous, as she crossed the boundary into the painting. Her shoes hit the ground—well, they hit _something_ hard. Her knees remained bent, ready to run, until she realized that the Prosecutor’s voice had disappeared.

 

She looked behind her, and didn’t see the Luchador. In fact, she couldn’t see through his portrait at all: it rippled darkly like the disturbed surface of a lake, through which shone colors but no distinct shapes. She took a few deep breaths and looked around.

 

She was standing in what looked like a suburban bedroom, except that where one of the walls would be, instead there stood the kitchen of Pepper Paradiso. Its tiles contrasted grossly with the plain wood flooring of the bedroom. Instead of a single bedroom door, there were double van doors: the doors of the Scaravan, standing ajar to allow her to view the van’s rear bed and all its ghost-finding equipment. Only two of the walls stood in the bedroom, and on them were all four portraits, each one as blurry as the Luchador’s had been. In one corner was an old wooden door with a rusty padlock, lit in orange from behind.

 

Vivi kept looking around, and realized she may have made a mistake. Her knees buckled.

 

Two of the walls and the ceiling were gone, and in the space they left, Vivi beheld a psychedelic infinity. Great colored clouds billowed through a vast emptiness, flowing with what seemed to be utter randomness at first glance—and yet, if she watched long enough, precise mathematical patterns emerged: intricately, chaotically perfect designs that boggled the mind. If there had ever been a Music of the Spheres, then the opera played out by this grand design would have drawn the world’s greatest composers to tears, insanity, or both.

 

It was infinite space, and she was squatting on a finite, fragile mote of architecture. She backpedaled to the bed and sat, gripping one of its bedposts as if she were riding astride a bull, one second from being flung into the tie-dyed abyss.

 

_Stay on target. Why am I here?_

 

“Lewis?” she asked. “Can you hear me?”

 

“ _Can you hear me? Can you hear me? Can you hear…._ ”

 

She didn’t know where the echoes were coming from in a room as open as this, but it was probably a mistake to ask this place to make sense. She bounced on the bed experimentally, and noticed how all her movements felt slowed, as if she were in a dream. _This is Lewis’s subconscious, isn’t it? So I should be able to talk to him directly._

 

“I don’t want to yell at you anymore,” she called out, her voice louder this time. She paused for a second, while the echoes died out, then corrected herself. “Okay, that’s not true, I do want to—but that doesn’t matter, I’m not going to. I just need to _talk_ to you. I want to understand you.”

 

She paused again, trying to pick her words carefully. It felt weird, like exerting a muscle she’d never used before: shaky, uncertain, and quick to tire.

 

“I’m sorry I yelled at you before.” This felt like a lie, but she pressed forward anyway: maybe she could _make_ it true. “It was unproductive, but we _need_ to talk now. Because I can’t let you hurt Arthur again. I think a part of you knows that you can’t let that happen, either.” _I certainly hope a part of you knows._

 

“So please, let me out somewhere where I can reach you—and _let_ me reach you. Arthur has to be safe, and this is the only way I know how to do it, so _please_ , help me! Let me help you!”

 

She waited, but for what, she wasn’t sure. She just sat on the bed, trying not to look too hard at the billowing immensity beyond, and hoping her words could get through. _They really ought to_ , she told herself. _If they can’t get through here, then where can they?_

 

Finally, she grunted, and made to stand up—and at that moment, one of the portrait frames pulsed gold. She sighed with relief, and whispered, “Thank you. I’ll see you soon.” Then she stepped through the portrait.

 

She was back in the mansion, but now in a long corridor lined with windows to the outside. She looked to be on the first floor. Not too close to the top, but if Lewis’s subconscious wasn’t shoving her outside, then she probably didn’t need to worry too much about reaching him.

 

“Ugh, my head….” She turned around to see the Minister behind her, his form rippling like water that had just been jumped through. Then she noticed his frame: it wasn’t rectangular, but was instead shaped like an arrow pointing left.

 

“Are you doing that on purpose?” she asked.

 

“Doing what?” the Minister mumbled, still clutching his head like he was suffering a hangover. Apparently, getting jumped through could be a real pain in the brain.

 

A final thought occurred to Vivi: there was something else she needed to do for Lewis, and for herself. _Maybe if I just can figure out what I saw in him…._ She stuck her head back through the portrait, to the side of the Minister, and called out: “And can you please give me one of those video screens? I need to see how that memory ends.”

 

When she pulled her head back out, and shook it like Mystery on her carpet after a romp through the mud, she found a viewscreen to the side of the portrait. “Thanks!” she called. Then she hefted the screen off the wall and started walking to the left.

 

“Thanks for what?” the Minister asked. “Where are you going?”

 

Vivi kept as much of her attention as she could on the path ahead of her, but there wasn’t much to spare: most of it was devoted to the screen she held in both hands. On it, the Mystery Skulls of the past were descending into the basement of a mansion very like the one she was in.

 

* * *

 

_Pulse, seventy. Fifteen breaths per minute._

 

They walked on, and came to a staircase. It looked darker and murkier than the corridor behind, as if diving into abyssal water—but not dark enough to obscure scratches on the walls, which seemed to have come from fingernails. Vivi and Mystery went first, with Arthur and Lewis following, and they descended the stairs quickly at first.

 

They had to slow down before long, because it was a _long_ staircase. “Okay,” Arthur huffed, “I didn’t realize we were going to see little Howie in the _core of the Earth_.”

 

“Working theory,” Vivi said, with Mystery panting beside her. “Remember how everything seemed huge when you were a kid? How the trees in your backyard were the tallest trees ever? This is what Howard’s house looked to him.”

 

Eventually, they reached the bottom. Lewis looked to his left, and saw his first ghost.

 

It was pretty much exactly what he’d expected. A translucent little boy dressed in formal-looking clothes sat hunched over in the far corner of a spacious, empty cellar, weeping quietly. He looked sad and grayscale, a quintessential Dickensian spectre… except there was something else, something Lewis couldn’t put his finger on.

 

“Ho-hum,” Vivi whispered.

 

“What?” Lewis said.

 

“Classic spook. Pretty lame.” She shrugged. “I hoped to show you something cooler for your first ghost. Arthur got this thing with three heads, a really gaudy shade of purple—”

 

Arthur nudged her side.

 

“Right. Sidetracking. Hello, Howie!” she called out.

 

Howard Rothman looked up at her, tear tracks leading down from his eyes to his jawline—they looked permanent, like sad clown makeup. “You said you had a puppy,” he murmured.

 

“Yeah, I remember. Come on, Mystery!” Vivi beckoned the dog forward, and he obeyed, bounding toward Howard’s open arms. Mystery licked Howard’s face, and Howard hugged Mystery back and laughed a little.

 

Lewis scratched his head and wondered whether or not to ask about how the ghost could touch the dog, but he decided not to worry about it. He leaned down to Vivi and asked, “So what’s the—”

 

“Look, he can touch the dog because he thinks he can, all right?” she interrupted. “Just roll with it.”

 

“Actually, I wanted to ask… what’s the next step in your plan?”

 

“Oh, huh.” She let out a single chuckle. “People usually ask the other thing. And, uh, I don’t really come in with a plan for these things… I usually just seat-of-the-skirt it.”

 

“That doesn’t sound comforting.”

 

“I’m great at it. Watch and learn.”

 

She stepped forward and declared, with the confidence of an admiral backed by a thousand-strong fleet, “So, Howie… what’s _your_ problem, anyway?”

 

Lewis was sensing a pattern. Arthur facepalmed, with a little mumble of, “Vivi, no….”

 

“What?” Howard asked, looking up as any trace of a smile disappeared from his face.

 

“You know, what’s got you acting so sad that you’re making everyone upstairs cry all the time?”

 

“I am?” New tears started tracing their ways down Howard’s face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I….” As his mumbles lapsed into sobs, Lewis felt a wave of sadness start to hit him. _Pulse of seventy, fifteen breaths per minute._

 

“Don’t quit your day job, Vivi,” Arthur muttered.

 

* * *

 

“Sweet, syrupy Jesus,” Vivi muttered, watching the viewscreen as she trudged up the first floor stairs. “Don’t quit it indeed.”

 

“What are you doing?” said a voice: the Duchess’s voice, to be precise. Vivi looked up to see her frame in the shape of an arrow pointing right. “You must leave this domicile immediately!”

 

“Are you going to try to stop me?” Vivi asked, stopping briefly in front of her.

 

The Duchess raised her finger, and looked like she badly wanted to say “Yes!”, but the word seemed to die on her lips.

 

“Thought so,” Vivi said, resuming her quest, and walking past the Duchess.

 

* * *

 

“Let me try,” Lewis said, holding an arm out in front of her as he walked forward. Mystery kept licking the boy, but Howard didn’t notice, so the dog gave up and returned to Vivi as Lewis approached. “Hello, Howard,” he said. “I’m Lewis Hernandez. I’m from the restaurant upstairs. How are you feeling?”

 

“Sad.” Howard sniffed, staring at his own shoes. There was something strange about those shoes.

 

Lewis nodded. “I bet. Do you want to talk about it now, or do you want to wait until later?”

 

The kid looked up at him. “You’re really big.”

 

“Yeah?” Lewis looked down at his own shoulders and chest, as if noticing the fact for the first time. “Tell you what. How about I crouch down, like this—” he bent his knees and hunched forward, halving his height “—and you can stand up, and then we can be as tall as each other. That sound good?”

 

Howard burst into even thicker tears. “What’s wrong?” Lewis asked. _Pulse of eighty, twenty breaths per minute._

 

“I can’t stand up,” he sobbed. “My legs… they’re….”

 

Lewis realized what was strange about Howard—and judging from the gasp behind him, Vivi did as well. His left leg was bent the wrong way at the knee, and his right leg flopped so that his inside toes touched the floor, an unnatural turning of the hip joint.

 

 _Pulse rising. Breaths quickening._ “What happened to you?”

 

“I fell down the stairs. I’m really clumsy.”

 

“Is that how you…” Lewis took a deep breath amid his short, shallow ones. “Is that how you died?”

 

Howard nodded. “I saw my parents after. They were acting really sad. I wish I hadn’t made them sad.” He looked away, but glanced up at Lewis every so often.

 

Lewis stared at him. A few times in the Pepper household, Bell had stolen some dessert from one of the pantries, and given one to Cherry on the condition that she swore herself to secrecy. When Lewis inevitably discovered the evidence of thievery, he asked Cherry what had happened, and she very carefully did not answer his questions. In fact, she gave quite precise answers like “ _Ginnie_ didn’t help me steal the cookies.” Unable to tell him the truth, but really really hoping he’d figure it out anyway.

 

She would give him the same furtive half-look that Howie was giving him now.

 

_I fell down the stairs. I’m really clumsy…. I saw my parents afterward. They were acting really sad._

 

“Howard?” Lewis asked. “You said you fell down the stairs?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

_They were acting really sad._

 

His pulse rose, his breaths stuttered, and if he’d been holding anything it would have shattered.

 

_Acting._

 

“By any chance,” Lewis said, giving himself a moment after each word so as not to erupt, “were you pushed?”

 

Howie looked down at the floor.

 

 _So,_ Lewis mused, _that’s how it is._ He imagined eternal fire, and he imagined Howard Rothman’s parents, and he imagined the cathartic union of the two. Then he shook himself: this was not the time. There was _never_ a time for that.

 

“ _What_ did you say?” Arthur said from behind him.

 

“If anything bad happened,” Lewis said, desperately willing calm upon himself even as infernos raged in the back of his mind, “you can tell me, okay? Anyone who might have hurt you isn’t here anymore.”

 

Howard stayed still for a few seconds more: then his head jerked up, and his speech quickened. “They never let me go outside without my Sunday best. They don’t want anyone to see the bruises from all the _accidents_. No, Howie can’t come over to play, he had a bad accident. Howie got in the way when Mother was making dinner, and he had an _accident_. Howie asked Father too many questions, and he had an _accident_.”

 

He was looking straight at Lewis, and his face wasn’t sad anymore: it was _furious_. “Howie talked back to his parents and had a really _big_ _accident!_ ” he screamed.

 

“ _Keep talking_ ,” Arthur said. Lewis looked back at him and realized that, compared to Arthur, he was doing well at keeping his temper. Arthur’s voice shook, both his hands were clenched, his eyes seemed close to bulging—he looked like the human equivalent of trying to contain Krakatoa with a sheet of tissue paper. Lewis made a note in his mind.

 

Next to Arthur, Lewis noticed that Vivi’s hand was over her mouth in horror—but he was neglecting his patient. He turned back to Howard. “So your parents lied to everyone. They said your death was an accident.”

 

“I saw them a month after. They were holding a party at the house. They weren’t acting sad anymore.” The tear tracks on Howard’s face had disappeared, and they weren’t the only things.

 

“Why do they get to be happy?” he yelled. The skin on his face was becoming more transparent, displaying a fracture-covered skull beneath it. His voice deepened, and guttural reverberations followed each word. “Why do _any_ of them get to be happy? It’s not _fair!_ ”

 

Lewis heard sobs behind him, and didn’t need to look to know that both Vivi and Arthur must have devolved into weeping.

 

_Pulse, one hundred thirty. Thirty breaths per minute._

 

“Why shouldn’t you?” he said, softly.

 

Howard froze. “What?” The voice was a child’s once more.

 

“Don’t you want to be happy instead?” Lewis kept his tone even—the ‘let’s keep the kids rational’ voice. “That would be fair, right?”

 

“You don’t understand.” Howard pounded his fist against his useless leg, a hint of reverb backing his voice again. “I _can’t_ be happy!”

 

“Well, I guess not….” Lewis placed his hands on Howard’s feet, and didn’t worry about the fact that he was able to grip them: he could because Howie believed it could work. “Not while these are broken. Want me to help?”

 

“Help?”

 

He placed his hand on Howard’s left knee, the one that was bent the wrong way. “I’m going to bend this back the right way, and it’s going to be fine, because you’re a ghost. And it’s not going to hurt much, because you’re a ghost. Okay?” Before Howard could respond, he said, “One, two, _three,_ ” and pushed.

 

Howard gasped, and then the knee looked correct. “And there we go. Looks better, doesn’t it?” Lewis said. If Vivi was telling the truth, then he could fix Howard’s legs just by convincing him that they _were_ fixed.

 

Howard bent his left knee a few times before nodding. “Better.”

 

“And now I’m going to do the right hip, and it’s going to be better. One, two, _three_.”

 

Howard swiveled his right leg once, twice, then smiled.

 

“And now,” Lewis said, “do you want to try something? Do you want to stand up?”

 

He reached toward Howard, but Howard shook his head. Planting his hands against the wall, and pushing his feet against the floor, he struggled to a standing position. “There, see?” Lewis smiled, looking Howard in the eyes, which was now a level view. “We’re as tall as each other.”

 

Howard let out a little laugh before leaning too far forward and losing his balance: Lewis caught him as he fell. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

 

Howard laughed—it was _probably_ laughter—into Lewis’s shoulder. It was an odd sensation to hold the ghost, like pins and needles. Eventually the boy stopped shaking, and whispered, “I’m scared.”

 

“Scared of what?” Lewis said.

 

“I know I need to pass on to the other side, but….” He sniffed. “But….”

 

Lewis heard the sound of a palm hitting a face behind him. “Ugh,” Vivi said, “why does everyone always assume ghosts _need_ to pass on? There’s no rules about it!” As Lewis looked back at her, she walked up to him and kneeled to look at Howard. “Listen, little guy. You’re a ghost now. You know what that means?”

 

Howard shook his head.

 

Vivi grinned. “And neither do I. _You_ get to decide what you wanna do with the rest of your afterlife, got it? You can travel wherever you want, go see whatever you want, _stay here—_ ” she spread her arms out, clearly indicating 'here’ not as a dark cellar, but as all of Earth “—as long as you want! You got that?”

 

Howard nodded.

 

“So don’t give me any of that 'need to’ salami. Tell me what _you_ want!” Vivi’s eyes seemed to sparkle, even in the pervasive gloom.

 

The child took a shuddering—albeit unnecessary—breath. “I… I think I want to pass on.”

 

“Oh.” Vivi’s shoulders slumped an inch or two. “Well, um… as long as it’s your decision.”

 

“But… I’m scared.” He shivered. “Mother and Father died a long time ago. What if they’re waiting for me?”

 

“Howard.” Lewis pulled back from his embrace, eyes narrowed. “Wherever you’re going, I can guarantee your parents don’t end up in the same place.”

 

“But what if—”

 

“ _Listen to me._ ” Lewis released Howard fully and stood with his legs, leaning far forward with his torso to stay level with the child. “I want you to do something for me. Take a step. Right now.”

 

“But—”

 

“Just _do_ it.”

 

Howard gulped, but stepped forward with his left foot.

 

“Good. And now you know what to do if you see your parents.”

 

“I don't—”

 

Lewis clapped his hands on Howard’s shoulders. “You turn around, and you just _walk away_. They can’t hurt you if you just—”

 

_Pulse, breathing._

 

“If you just walk away,” he finished, choking on his words. There was bile all over his stomach—it was always there, he supposed, and yet now in particular he seemed to feel it welling inside him. “You just walk away.”

 

“I just walk away.”

 

“Exactly.” Lewis faked a smile. He knew, from experience, that it would reassure the child. _This is not about me_ , he thought. _It’s about his problems, not mine._

 

“I’ll just walk away.” Howard smiled genuinely, and his back straightened. “You know what, mister? I’m going to do that. Because it’s like you said, Miss,” he said, nodding at Vivi, “I get to do whatever I want now. And they can’t hurt me anymore!”

 

Lewis noticed that Howard’s lower legs were becoming more transparent, as if he were evaporating from the ground up. “Goodbye, you all!” he said, waving as the transparency spread to his midriff. “I’ll see you all on the other side one day!” He kept waving until there was nothing left but the hand, and then even kept going until even the tips of his fingers vanished—and he was gone.

 

Lewis took a deep breath. His pulse was settling already.

 

“Well, that got morbid _right_ at the end, but I guess he was a ghost, so whatever.” Vivi shrugged. “Other than that, it went great!” She lifted her hand for a high five, and Lewis returned it. “You’re pretty good at this, big guy.”

 

“Are all your cases like this?” he asked.

 

“Believe it or not, some of them _aren’t_ Lifetime original movies.” She laughed at her own joke. “But yeah, a lot of em are. Weird, right? But seriously, you are a natural at this!” She punched his shoulder. “You should totally join—”

 

“Uh, guys?” Arthur called, from the other side of the room, near the door. “We gotta go.”

 

“Why?” Lewis asked.

 

“Question one: What happens to the ghostly manor when the ghost disappears? Question two: what happens if that ghostly manor is partway underground?” Arthur gestured all around them. “And question three: have you ever heard of telefragging?”

 

“Oh,” Vivi said. She looked around, where already the walls were becoming less distinct.

 

Arthur took one last moment at the foot of the stairs to draw his index finger across his neck: then he started sprinting up. “I would really appreciate it if we all not-died today, people!”

 

They fled. The stairs that had been so tiring already now seemed twice as long, not that anyone was complaining. As Vivi lagged, Lewis—stuck behind her on the staircase—said, “Sorry!”, scooped her up in his arms, and ran faster.

 

“Why are you still so _fast?_ ” Arthur screamed, as Lewis closed in on him and they cleared the top of the stairs. The group veered right and sprinted down the hallway. Lewis paid special attention to keeping Vivi’s head from hitting the walls—with the result that he forgot about keeping his own away from the ceiling. Curiously, instead of his own head being damaged, he felt ceilingboards splinter as his skull plowed through them—the house was losing cohesion, and fast.

 

“There’s the door!” Vivi called, pointing forward with her finger like a cavalry officer with a sword—as if there were any other way but forward. Lewis ducked like a linebacker and picked up speed for the final stretch. Arthur looked back, yelped, and pressed himself flat against the wall, somehow leaving enough space for Lewis to rush past him and into the wooden door at the end.

 

With a resounding _CRASH_ , he tackled the door open and burst into the kitchen at Pepper Paradiso. The bright lights jarred his eyes after having spent so long under ghostly gaslight. He panted at a rate he didn’t bother to calculate, and his heart beat like he’d made a hundred-yard return.

 

“You know, when I think about it….”

 

He looked down to see Vivi still in his arms. “Technically that whole last hallway section would have been _above_ ground, so we would probably have been fine. Also, can you put me down?”

 

“What?” It was at that moment that his sense of proprioception joined forces with his other senses, and informed him that he was carrying Vivi bridal-style. “Oh, uh.”

 

There followed a few moments of stillness.

 

“You’re still holding me.”

 

“Right.”

 

“So, uh…” said the voice of Mr. Pepper. Lewis’s and Vivi’s heads turned rapidly to face him and his wife, who’d been standing in the corner of the kitchen the whole time, next to some just-chopped onions. And, of course, watching Lewis carry Vivi bridal-style. “How’d it go?” Mr. Pepper asked.

 

Several more still moments. Lewis felt like a paused tape, even as Vivi nudged his ribs, and for some reason he had no idea what his pulse was.

 

“It was a beautiful ceremony,” Arthur panted from behind them as he walked out of the pantry, with Mystery padding along behind him. “Tears were shed, mostly mine—Mystery caught the bouquet.”

 

Lewis’s arms finally released like a trapdoor, letting Vivi drop to the floor. “ _Arthur!_ ” they shouted together, Vivi pulling her arms back defensively.

 

He shrugged in response. “In sync? Not helping your case.”

 

“ _Anyway!_ ” Vivi pushed him to the side as quickly as possible, stepping closer to the Peppers and speaking very fast. “You’ll be happy to know we’ve helped your resident ghost move on, and I can guarantee that your guests won’t be bursting into tears anymore.”

 

“Wait, really?” Mr. Pepper scratched his leg. “So there really was a ghost? I mean, it’s still kind of hard to believe….”

 

“Oh, I dunno, why don’t you ask your son who doesn’t believe in ghosts whether it was a ghost or not.”

 

Vivi looked up at Lewis, and he forced himself to clear his throat. “It’s, um… it’s true.” He took a deep breath without counting it, looking into his dad’s eyes. “Ghosts are real.”

 

“ _Yessssss…_ ”

 

Lewis glanced down at Vivi, and she let out a single chuckle. “Sorry, I just love hearing people say that _so much._ Anyway,” she said, returning her gaze to Mr. Pepper, “it was a ghost, his name was Howie, and now he’s gone and that’ll be….” She pulled out her phone and punched some numbers into the touchscreen. “Four hundred dollars for services rendered.”

 

“Four hundred? No, hang on!” Lewis demanded, looming over her. With a height difference of at least two feet, there was a lot of room to loom. “That took twenty minutes, and _I_ did most of the work!”

 

“If you don’t like our prices, then go to one of our competitors next time… oh wait.” She winked up at Lewis, the smile not leaving her face for a second. “There aren’t any.”

 

Lewis glared down. Vivi just looked back up.

 

“But…” she said, at last, her feet still planted, “yeah, you were basically awesome down there, so, uh….” She shrugged. “'Friends and family’ discount brings it down to three hundred?”

 

“Are we friends now?”

 

“Well, we’re not family, so process of elimination….” Vivi attached a card-reader to her phone, then held it up to Mr. Pepper. “We take cash, debit, or credit.”

 

Lewis looked at the back of her head, and felt his heartrate settle down to something innately comfortable.

 

* * *

 

_At last._

 

Vivi crested the final staircase, stepping into what had to be the mansion’s attic. The room in which she found herself was triangular, its small shape defined by the roof directly above, and there were no furnishings to cover its shabby wooden flooring. Light crept in through vents in the roof, illuminating the room shaft by dusty shaft. With a groan of relief she set the viewscreen down: she’d been carrying it the whole way up, and keeping an eye on it had severely slowed her progress. Hopefully, it would prove to have been worthwhile.

 

“Please don’t come in.”

 

She looked forward: at the far end of the room was a door, and on that door was the Luchador’s portrait. He didn’t look angry—he didn’t even look at her. His head was bowed, and he stood in profile. “Please just leave,” he said. He sounded so tired.

 

She stepped forward.

 

“He doesn’t want you to….”

 

“He doesn’t want me to see him, I know.” She gripped the doorknob. Just one twist, and one pull, left before her. “I know.”

 

“He doesn’t want you to see him _like this._ ” The Luchador lifted his head her way, and she saw the heaviness in his eyes. His mask had helped him look so fierce before, but now it just looked gaudy and cheap: he might as well have been a sad clown. “Please, just go.”

 

She twisted. “Sorry,” she whispered. She pulled. Beyond the door was another room, as small and unadorned as the one she’d left.

 

Lewis sat in its center.

 

He faced away from her, staring at something she couldn’t see in front of him. From here, she could see his protruding ribs on the back of his suit. His legs were crossed, and his back was hunched forward, perhaps because his skull would have hit the ceiling otherwise. If he heard the door opening, or her footsteps on the creaking floor, then he did not react to it.

 

Vivi advanced step by step, crouching as she walked around Lewis, and finally sat down next to him, seeing his locket in a deep, dull shade of gray. He still didn’t seem to notice her, engrossed as he was by what lay on the far wall: another viewscreen, showing the same memory Vivi had been watching. She decided against trying to get his attention.

 

The Vivi on the screen was finishing up her transaction with the Peppers, and was turning to leave. The words “ask her to stay” appeared faintly on the screen, but the Lewis of the past didn’t seem to heed them: he waved an awkward goodbye and made to return to cooking.

 

“Mom!” screamed Ginnie’s voice from upstairs. “Dad! Lewis! Bell’s gambling!”

 

“Chicken!” Bell yelled back. “You’re only saying that because you think you’ll lose!”

 

“Kids?” Lewis called. “Come down?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur grab Vivi’s arm, stopping her.

 

Bell and Ginnie stampeded downstairs, with Cherry following meekly behind. “You’re gambling?” Lewis asked Bell, crouching down halfway, so he was still taller than her.

 

She beamed up at him. “I bet Ginnie one hour of playing Minecraft that ghosts are real. So now you have to tell me!”

 

“They’re not real!” Ginnie crossed her arms and pouted. “People go to heaven or hell when they die, just like Father Pink says in Sunday School. There’s no such thing as ghosts!”

 

After a few seconds, Lewis realized she was waiting for him to agree with her. He grimaced, and she looked up at him with wide eyes. “There isn’t, right?”

 

Lewis bent his knees all the way. “Bell,” he said, resting his hand on her shoulder, “please don’t gamble with your sisters. But yes, ghosts are real.”

 

“ _YES!_ ” she shrieked, jumping for joy, pushing Lewis’s hand from her shoulder. “I _win!_ ”

 

“No you don’t!” Ginnie said. “We’re not gambling!”

 

“I still win! So are you a cool ghost hunter now?”

 

Behind himself, Lewis heard a snarl: he looked behind him to see Vivi clenching her fist, but Arthur whispered to her, “Just let it go.” Then he winked, but not at her, and Lewis wasn’t sure who he winked at.

 

“Yes,” Lewis said, choosing his words carefully as his attention returned to Bell. “I helped stop the ghost. He’s gone now.”

 

“ _Awesome!_ ” Bell pumped her fist. “My big brother’s a cool ghost fighter!”

 

A small grunt called Lewis’s attention, and he looked up to see Cherry trembling on the stairs. “There was a ghost here?” she asked, mumbling most of her words.

 

Lewis sighed. “Oh, Cherry,” he said, extending his hand to her. “Ghosts aren’t evil, or scary, okay? They’re just people in a bad place, people who need help.” Cherry grabbed his hand.

 

In the corner of the Lewis’s eye, he saw Vivi nod in approval. Outside the screen, Vivi of the present looked up at her Lewis. _People who need help._

 

“Well, glad we cleared that up,” Vivi of the past said. “It’s been a swell time, so _auf wiedersehen!_ ” Once more she stepped toward the door.

 

“You should recruit Lewis,” said Mrs. Pepper.

 

Lewis and Vivi stared at her. “What?” they said together. Even Mystery looked confused. Arthur, on the other hand, seemed to be fighting a grin.

 

“Your group is very small.” Her voice was flat as the counter. “Not enough cooks to manage the broth. And Lewis could use some extracurricular activities for his college resume.”

 

“Well, erm…” Vivi started to say.

 

Arthur leaped in front of her. “What a great idea that you’ve just independently had!” he exclaimed. “We accept, as long as Lewis says yes!”

 

The pulse counter in the lower right corner of the screen flashed white: it was ninety. “But, I, um—” Correction: ninety and rising fast. Lewis’s vision seemed to go red, indicating a blush.

 

“Come on, Lewis!” Bell said from his knee-level. He looked down to see her with the eagerest face she’d ever shown. “When else are you gonna get to be a cool ghost hunter!”

 

“Helper,” Ginnie hissed.

 

“Cool ghost helper!”

 

Lewis looked up at Cherry, and she smiled: he looked over at his father. “Dad?” he said.

 

Mr. Pepper nodded. “Trust us, Lewis. I think this is going to be a great experience for you.”

 

“But I’ve got to do the cooking here, and there’s all my homework, and—”

 

Mr. Pepper gripped one of Lewis’s hands in two of his own. “Trust us.”

 

He closed his eyes. On the screen, ocular vision was replaced with a chart, listing pros and cons. The cons piled up quickly: “not enough free time”, “not a respectable job”, “what if I lose control?”, and a giant, simple, “ _NO_ ”. The only words on the other side, at first, were “because Mom and Dad said so”—but gradually, beneath them, a couple of smiling faces grew. Vivi’s and Arthur’s.

 

His eyes opened. “I’ll do it,” he said.

 

“All right!”

 

Lewis’s proprioception dummy flashed solid white, showing a spiky-haired figure grabbing the back of Lewis’s shirt. Arthur had his hand on Lewis’s back, pulling him toward the counter and his parents. “You too, Vivi,” he said, beckoning her in, “and you, Mystery. And you too, kids!” He waved Lewis’s sisters to come close.

 

“What do you mean?” Ginnie asked.

 

“We’re doing a group shot!” Arthur pulled out his phone and turned on the camera. “For a job well done and a new addition to the group! Everyone gather in!”

 

Bell rushed in, and Ginnie and Cherry followed suit: Vivi picked up Mystery as she pushed herself closer to the Peppers. Arthur stretched his arm as far as it would go, but if the phone’s on-screen preview was anything to go by, he wouldn’t fit everyone in the shot. He sighed and offered the phone to Lewis. “You’d better take the picture, big guy,” Arthur said, as Lewis accepted the phone. “Don’t wanna leave anyone out.”

 

Lewis reached the camera out in his left hand, resting his right on the backs of his parents, with just his fingers on Vivi’s shoulder. She lifted her left arm and laid it on Lewis’s arm, while Arthur wrapped his right arm around Lewis’s back. The Pepper sisters smiled from their positions in the front. “All right,” Lewis said, “on the count of three, everyone say _queso_. Ready? One, two, three—”

 

“ _Queso!_ ”

 

The phone flashed. Lewis’s memory froze, with his gaze from the past fixed on that flash.

 

In the present, Vivi let out a sigh, and finally Lewis noticed her.

 

“Vivi,” he said. He tensed his body, and Vivi watched it change: his ribs retracted into his torso; his black suit changed hue into a white dress shirt with purple ascot, waistcoat, and pants; and skin flowed from beneath his clothing onto his hands and skull. When it was done, his eyes were closed, and he looked the spitting image of the Lewis she’d seen alive, except for the locket still hovering before his chest, and still dull-gray.

 

“How did you get up here?” he asked in a voice lower than a whisper.

 

“I asked nicely.”

 

“I’m sorry.” His eyes were still closed.

 

“Look at me,” she said. He turned his head to her, but his eyes were still closed. “Lewis, really look at me.” At length, he opened his eyes, revealing the darkness within them, and the twin pinpricks of purple light it harbored.

 

She tamped down the urge to start speaking right away. It wasn’t helpful. “Could you,” she said, before biting her lip.

 

After a few seconds of silence, Lewis said, “Could I…?”

 

“Zeroth things zeroth, could you… make this mansion go away?” She shrugged. “It’s very conspicuous, and I don’t think we need another appearance on the local news right now.”

 

“Oh. Of course.”

 

He wrapped his arm around her back, and when she made to push him off, he said, “We’re five floors up.” She blinked, then grabbed on to his torso. “Ready?” he asked, and she nodded.

 

Lewis squeezed his eyelids shut in concentration, but Vivi kept hers wide open. Around them, the mansion faded like a painting left in the sun: it lost its color as it went translucent, then transparent. Vivi felt her legs dangle beneath her, and looked down to see five floors of air between her in the ground. Her breath caught.

 

“Down?” she managed to say. Lewis, his eyes still shut, descended gently to the ground, no faster than a foot per second. Now that Vivi had a clear view of Bluffstad again, she scanned the town and saw no news vans or choppers, to her relief.

 

They landed at last. “Thanks,” Vivi said, stepping away: he did likewise. Now they were in a wide field, with the nearest dwelling at least a hundred yards away. A faint breeze swept over grass that hadn’t yet resigned itself to the oncoming winter, letting it ripple like it was a placid sea, and like she and Lewis were ships in the dark. He bowed his head and looked away from her.

 

“We need to talk,” Vivi said. _Good opener._

 

“I know,” he said. “I’m so, so sorry, but—”

 

“You’re sorry?” She couldn’t stop this tide. “Isn’t that what you said the _last_ time you tried to kill Arthur, that you were _sorry_? And I’m just supposed to think everything’s gonna be fine from here on out?”

 

“I wasn’t going to kill him!”

 

Lewis clenched his fist. “I really, really wasn’t. I was just so mad, and I lost control, but I wouldn’t have killed him. He’s fine.”

 

“That’s what Arthur said.” Vivi crossed her arms. “But Arthur would tell me you threw him a party with a stripper cake and a personal moonbounce, if he thought it would keep me from being mad at you. You know he would!”

 

Lewis averted his eyes. He was withdrawing again. Vivi tried to take a deep breath. “Look,” she said. “Keep talking. So you’re angry at Arthur? Is that the issue?”

 

“I don’t think I’m angry at Arthur.”

 

Vivi bit the insides of her cheeks, keeping a “Could have fooled me!” beneath her vocal chords where it belonged.

 

“I’m just….” His shoulders tensed up, then lowered in a deliberate motion. “I’m just _angry_. Nothing’s going right—or maybe everything’s going right except me, I’m not sure. I miss that.”

 

“Miss what?”

 

“I miss being sure. I was _always_ sure about myself, I always knew how to….” He sighed, and although the sound came out, Vivi felt no breath on her face. “I miss being me.”

 

Vivi let her hand relax—she hadn’t realized it was clenched—and took another deep breath. _I guess that makes two of us._ “You,” she sighed, looking out over the field. The same breeze that ruffled the grass chose that moment to blow her hair into her eyes: she blinked and brushed it out of her hair by hand.

 

“I really am sorry,” he said, butting in on her moping. “I shouldn’t have blown up at him, but—”

 

“But you were just so angry, right?” Vivi didn’t want her tone to come out bitter, and yet…. “'But don’t worry, Vivi, it’ll never happen again, everything will be hunky-dovey and lovey-dory until the _next_ time I get _so angry_.’ Is that what you wanna tell me?”

 

She looked up at him. “We can’t keep doing this any longer. This has to stop. So what do I have to do? What kind of guarantee do I have to extort from you to make sure you’ll never hurt Arthur again?”

 

He turned away for a moment, looking down in thought: then he reached inside his waistcoat and pulled something out. When his hand opened, that something was revealed as his locket, and it floated over toward her—still mostly gray, but flecked with blues, oranges, reds, and purples.

 

Vivi squinted at it, remembering what had happened the last time she’d held it. Lewis’s eyes widened. “Oh. It’s not going to shock you if you open it.”

 

She grunted, and took the locket, holding both halves together in her hand. “All right, but it’s just you and me being love-mammals inside here, right? I know what’s in this thing.”

 

“I thought so too, but… Please, open it.”

 

She sighed, and squeezed it, leaning back a bit as if there were a small chance of it exploding. It clicked open.

 

Her hand spasmed in surprise, and the other one quickly came up to keep the locket from falling. The picture inside was not of Lewis and her… or, perhaps more accurately, it was. It just happened to also include Arthur, and Mystery, and Lewis’s whole family. It was the selfie from the memory.

 

Vivi felt a smile come to her lips, mirroring the ones she saw on their faces: ebullient on hers and Arthur’s, pleased on the Pepper parents’, excited on the sisters’, and slightly uncertain on Lewis’s, like he couldn’t quite believe his good luck as he held the camera. Even Mystery looked happy. Lewis hadn’t left anyone out.

 

She looked up at Lewis. “I want things to be like that again,” he said, his eyes finally meeting hers without hesitation. “I want to try and make that happen. And, well… I would be honored if you could help me.”

 

His locket flared blue in her hand, and she sighed. “You big palooka,” she said, stepping forward to tuck it back inside his waistcoat. “If you’re gonna be so hard to like, could you at least be a bit easier to hate?” She punched him half-heartedly in the shoulder.

 

A few more seconds of silence pervaded the air, and Vivi let them: it was a welcome bit of respite before what would come next. She took a deep breath, in and out, and on an impulse touched her index fingers to her other arm’s wrist. _What’s that, about… eighty a minute?_

 

She took another deep breath. _Ready._

 

“Time to go,” she declared. She turned on the ball of her foot toward the town and began marching forward with the self-assertion of a drill sergeant.

 

“Go where?” Lewis said. She didn’t look back, but heard his feet on the grass behind hers.

 

“Arthur’s holed up in the workshop. We’re going there, and you’re going to talk to him, and we’re going to get this thing sorted once and for all. And I _swear—_ ” She wheeled around and jabbed his chest, forcing him to a stop. “If you blow your casket at him again, then you’re on the next bus out of here.”

 

She returned to her front-facing march. “I _live_ here,” he complained behind her.

 

“Not technically true!”

 

He grumbled, and amended himself: “I _exist_ here. You can’t kick me out.”

 

“You absolutely know I could.”

 

“I’d like to see you try.”

 

“I bet you would.” She caught herself mid-step, like a little cognitive reset, before completing the step a moment later. It felt so easy to fall into these patterns of patter, like—like muscle memory, or singing a long-forgotten song and letting her voice complete the words before her brain did. Like some part of her hadn’t quite forgotten.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Vivi noticed upon walking into the Kingsmen Mechanics garage was the door at the end—the one that led to Lance’s office. It was locked, which made a lot of sense to Vivi.

 

It was also dangling on one hinge.

 

“No,” Vivi whispered, running forward. The latch-hole on the doorframe had been busted through, leaving splinters sticking out like weeds. “Arthur!”

 

He sat in the chair at the end: arms hugged around himself, hunched over and shivering like he was trapped in a freezer. He didn’t have his vest on, just his loose white shirt, and through its neck-hole Vivi saw a huge purple blotch of bruise on the shoulder. “Arthur!” she yelled.

 

His head whipped up, and then the rest of his body whipped back. “Please!” he yelled, staring past Vivi. “I’m sorry, just please, don’t hurt me anymore! I won’t bother you, I—I swear!”

 

Vivi followed his gaze past her own body, where it landed on Lewis.

 

“Don’t show me that again,” Arthur sobbed, covering his eyes with his forearm as if by instinct. “Don’t make me look at that again.”

 

Ice and fire filled her veins all at once. Her teeth locked together as she stared up at Lewis. “What?” he said, his voice high with fear. “Arthur, what are you talking about?” Fear for Arthur, or fear of being found out?

 

Vivi’s breaths came short and shallow. She grabbed Arthur by the shoulders, and he yelped in pain. “Arthur,” she said, “tell me what happened to you. _Now._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Tumblr user Squigglydigg for prereading help, and HeCallsMeHisChild for brainstorming help!


	17. The First-Case Scenario—What You Don't See

If Arthur had put a pen in his hand and pressed it against a piece of paper, he'd have looked like a seismograph measuring at least six on the Richter scale. It was a wonder he managed not only to close the door to the office, but lock it. He teetered to a chair by the desk, grabbing it as soon as he could, and let gravity force him down rather than relying on his muscles. Darkness crowded the edges of his vision, and everything around him felt tight, like the walls were squeezing against his skin.

 

_I shouldn't think about it. Just breathe, right? That's a thing that people do to calm down?_

 

Well, he was breathing, he could be sure of that. However, he was pretty sure he _should_ have been doing something like one breath every five seconds, and not the other way around.

 

_Don't think about it. Breathe, breathe, breathe._

 

It was funny, albeit in a way completely disconnected from actual humor. He got _scared_ during missions, but that was just the table stakes, so to speak. Normal working conditions. He had a job to do, and so he could always function through the immediate terror.

 

_Breathe breathe breathe breathe breathe_

 

But there were rules to fear, as every horror buff knew (Vivi, in this case: Arthur felt that he got enough horror outside the silver screen, thank you). And one such rule was this: no matter what you can show the audience, it's never as terrifying as the nightmares they can conjure upon themselves. The beast is never as frightening as its shadow.

 

_Lewis._

 

Arthur shook upon the chair, shadow after shadow dashing across his fevered brain.

 

_Lewis, grabbing my neck and breaking it like sugar glass._

 

His fists clenched, as did his eyelids and jaw. His tongue was in the way of the latter: he felt its meat on his teeth, and tasted blood.

 

_Lewis, grabbing my neck but not squeezing quite as hard, watching silently as I choke._

 

His whole body constricted inward, like a castle drawing its bridge and barring the gate. Like he was trying to lock out all the intrusions.

 

_Lewis, blasting his inferno into my flesh, through my flesh, as I scream with burning lungs._

 

The problem with locking everything out, of course, was that it meant locking everything in as well. And they were all in.

 

_Lewis, dripping molten clay onto my eyes._

 

Arthur's hand had been locked upon the arm of the chair: it spasmed out and grabbed a pencil from a nearby mug, pulling the mug over in the process. The clatter of graphic tools against the table swatted at his ears, but he tried to ignore that as he stabbed the pencil against the wood to blunt it. Taking quick, shallow breaths—or being taken by them—he dragged the blunt end up and down his arm. Anything to take him out of this.

 

Seconds later, when he realized how little sensation he was feeling from the pencil, he looked down and saw he was dragging it along the wrong arm: he switched sides and felt the point press viciously into his skin, which sank in response. He yanked it this way and that, half-hoping he'd bruise himself and the ache would distract him even more.

 

Eventually, he pulled too hard: the pencil snapped almost in half, leaving a fine band of material keeping it together, and a few splinters nicked him. He dropped the pencil, taking deeper breaths than before, and looked down at his right arm. It was a blotchy, graphite-y mess, but he hadn't actually done any real damage to it: it paid to blunt the pencil first.

 

_Worst comes to worst, I could always just build a new one._ By now, he could smirk at the humor. _Kind of a hassle, though._

 

His breaths were slowing down, and the room seemed to be its usual size. Maybe he could think rationally about this. _Lewis wasn't going to kill me. Right?_

 

It made sense— _breathe_ —Lewis knew the truth now. He'd even admitted it. Lewis wasn't going to hurt someone who hadn't hurt him, he was too good for that. He wasn't cruel, like—

 

_Knock knock._

 

His eyes widened, but Arthur didn't otherwise react. Not until he heard the doorknob jiggling, and a voice saying, “For the love of—why would he _lock_ this stupid thing—”

 

It sounded like Lewis, but... strangely agitated. Or at least unusually so. Arthur knew the Lewis who spent words like ten-dollar bills, which was to say with great reservation; he was getting acquainted with the Lewis who went up like a California forest in summer. But in both cases, every word was coordinated, deliberate. He'd never quite heard Lewis so _jittery_. “Lewis?” Arthur asked.

 

“Arthur? Did you lock this—hang on, I'm coming in.”

 

Arthur watched the door shudder once, and then once again—and then it burst open, splintering the latch hole and busting off one of the hinges. “ _There_ we go,” Lewis said, grimacing as he rubbed his knuckles.

 

“Jesus _Christ!_ ” Arthur kicked back with his feet, and felt a sensation of falling as his chair tipped. Before he could even flail his arms, Lewis surged forward and grabbed the back of the chair, steadying it and bringing it back. If Arthur had blinked, he would have missed it: even so, he could hardly believe it. “What the—” he stammered.

 

“Don't need you cracking your head open,” Lewis said. “What, do you think I'm here to kill you?”

 

Arthur looked up at him. “Well, I mean....” He took deep breaths. _Lewis isn't going to kill me. But...._ “Why are you here?”

 

Lewis stepped back, holding his hands out in truce. “Arthur, _muchacho_ , I can take a hint—I know you aren't exactly happy to see me.” He sighed, but it seemed forced. Though his hands were still held out, Arthur saw them twitch: whatever Lewis was feeling, he was working hard to cover it up. “But I need to show you something, okay? Will you let me show you something?”

 

“Uh....” Arthur squinted. Was it just him, or was there something strange about Lewis's eyes? “Show me what?”

 

“Trust me, okay? I need you to see this. Please.”

 

_Breathe. Breathe._ Arthur let his shoulders fall. “Okay, I trust you. Show me.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Lewis grabbed him by the scalp and yanked him up from his chair.

 

“Lewis!?” Arthur shrieked, and now there _was_ something strange and awful about Lewis's eyes. They had rotted away. “ _Lewis!?_ ”

 

The eyeless, sunken face tilted to the side. Where the lips weren't shrunken away from the mouth, they were chipped and tattered, exposing a knock-off of a grin. “A winning smile, don't you think?” Lewis said, and Arthur heard creaks as the jaw moved. There were holes and indentations: he could _see_ the jaw. “Why don't you take a closer look.”

 

“What are you—”

 

Lewis switched his grip on Arthur's head. The palm now covered his face with a grip almost hard enough to crush. A stale fetor invaded Arthur's nose as the palm pressed against his nostrils, enough to make him gag, and the pain of all his body weight yanking on his neck would compel him to scream—but with the hand over his mouth, he could do neither. All he could do was look, for Lewis had splayed his fingers to leave Arthur's eyes uncovered.

 

Lewis pulled him in close, so they were face-to-hand-to-face, letting Arthur look right at his broken mouth. “This isn't real, Arthur,” he hissed, his tone coarser than worn tarmac. “That fall didn't just take my life, it destroyed my jaw. The mortician had to stick in a _special wire—_ ” he let his jaw hang loose, exposing a length of steel cord to Arthur's wide eye “—and build me back up just to make me look nice for the funeral, but it's starting to wear thin, _isn't it?_ ” Abruptly he grabbed Arthur's hand and pulled it up, forcing Arthur to touch the jaw with his fingers.

 

“ _Lewis?_ ” Arthur tried to choke out, and immediately regretted it. He could _taste_ it, in his mouth! He was choking, with his only air input through a toxic filter. His limbs thrashed, but he had no strength to come near Lewis's. The world seemed to be turning to grayscale.

 

“And the neck....” Lewis tried to tut with his tongue, but there wasn't enough. “Near-total decapitation. More stitches than you could imagine just to put it back together. It can't make up for what you _took_ from me.”

 

Arthur struggled uselessly, his vision blurring as he shook. All at once, Lewis dropped him back in the chair. Arthur heaved a breath, coughing and feeling the sputum in his throat.

 

“But that's not the worst of it. I have so much to show you, Arthur,” he said. Bending his knees, he grabbed Arthur's shoulders with enough force that Arthur, breath-starved as he was, cried out in pain. He was looking right at Lewis's burial suit, which hadn't decayed as much as his body had. “I'm going to show you what you _did!_ ”

 

* * *

 

“And then he.. and then—then he....” Arthur gasped, trying and failing to continue the story. Even as Vivi watched, the bruises were developing like an old-fashioned photo on his face and arm. “Oh, God. Oh, dear _God_.”

 

“It's okay,” Vivi said, holding him tight as he sobbed into her shoulder. “It's okay. I'm here, you're safe. You'll be okay.” He smelled like death, with an unmistakable undertone of vomit, but that didn't matter. She was here for him now.

 

She was here for _both_ of them, in fact—but in distinctly different ways. Vivi looked up and Lewis, and felt her face contort. “Lewis, get out. _Forever._ ”

 

“I didn't—” Lewis's hand was to his spectrally-emitted mouth. “That's _disgusting_. That's utterly _sick_. I would _never_ do that, not even to—!”

 

“What, not even to your worst enemy?” She pulled Arthur in tighter for an extra bit of reassurance, then let go so she could step toward Lewis. “Wow. Isn't it something—all that spiel und drang about how you want to make amends, you really had me going! But when it comes to worst enemies, we still know who _yours_ is, don't we?”

 

“I swear, it really wasn't—”

 

“I'm getting a pretty clear idea of who _mine_ is too, you know.” Vivi was sure she looked ugly by this point, showing all her teeth in a grimace. “So let's make this clear. You have five minutes to leave or I'm going to _exorcise_ you.”

 

“Vivi, _por favor_ —”

 

“Don't f... don't _MUCK_ with me, Lewis! Get the hell out!”

 

“It _WASN'T ME!_ ” Lewis roared, with such incredible volume that Vivi was actually blown back. She looked up at him, cowed—and the realization that she was cowed only quieted her further.

 

Lewis made a few angry seething noises—less breaths, more guttering sounds from the fire that swept across his face, threatening to burn it away. “It couldn't have been me. I was at the mansion the whole time—it disappears if I go too far away.” He raised his hands in a demanding gesture. “And I can't make a rotting corpse out of myself. I can look like this, or—” he transformed momentarily, revealing his floating skull and exposed ribs “—like _that_ , but I can't do what Arthur described. _It wasn't me._ ”

 

Vivi found her wind again. “And am I just supposed to believe that?” she asked. “I'm just supposed to believe that you can't leave the mansion, that you've only got two forms, I'm just supposed to _take your word for it_ because, what? You _love_ me?” She said it in the most sarcastic tone she could, and was glad to see him flinch.

 

She pointed back at Arthur, still gasping for air, his face and neck gradually puffing up. “You know what I love? Not having my best friend get nearly killed _multiple times a day_. And since you arrived, it's been nothing but a... a warzone for him. So I don't care if you're taking the highway down, the stairway up, or just hitchhiking, you need to leave, _now._ ”

 

“Vivi,” Arthur whispered between two breaths. “Stop.”

 

“What?” she asked, still staring at Lewis but managing a glance Arthur's way.

 

“I think he actually didn't—”

 

“ _Don't start_ with that tired _skit_ ,” she said, rounding on him now—but she gripped her fist, trying to rein herself in. “Him with his... bursts of anger, you with your battered woman syndrome, it's like we've got a whole telenovela in here.”

 

Arthur looked confused, and she wished she had no idea why. “How can you still defend him?” she asked. “He's tried to kill you like five times in the last four days—that's _more than once a day—_ he's got your face and shoulders all bruised, and—” She noticed his right arm, all black and blotchy with a curious sheen, and repulsive for its strangeness. She nearly gagged. “Dear sweet penitent _thief!_ He charred your arm half-off, that's gotta hurt like a _matriarch_ and you're still defending him? _Why?_ ”

 

“Wha?” Arthur looked down at the arm she was pointing at. “Oh, um. That was me.”

 

“What.”

 

Arthur rubbed at his arm with his prosthetic, and some of the blackness—more like _greyness_ , now that Vivi had a better look through her twitching eye—rubbed off. “It's just graphite. Like, from a pencil. I had, um, an itch and—”

 

“God _damnit!_ ” Vivi yelled, throwing her arms out. If Arthur hadn't been there, she was pretty sure she'd have grabbed something and chucked it at a wall just to watch it break. “Arthur, it's shhhh _stuff_ like this makes it _impossible_ for me to trust you!”

 

Everything was quiet.

 

She'd heard of something called the “seven minute lull”. Large parties of people, no matter how energized, would naturally find a low ebb of volume in their conversation from time to time; once every seven minutes was how the myth went. The joke she'd always seen associated with it was someone shouting some obscene remark out into what had been a din, but became suddenly a hush—and everyone was forced to hear it.

 

This wasn't a very large party, and certainly not a fun one—and she'd had the floor the whole time, barely letting either of the other two get a word in. Yet somehow, she felt exactly that way, like she'd said that horrible thing in time for them all to shut up and hear it. She heard the words echo, felt the two gazes pressed upon her.

 

But she meant every one of those obscene words. She looked at Arthur, at her friend, his mouth moving as if to respond, and she found herself ready to second-guess every statement that came out of that mouth. _Triple_ -guess, if it had anything to do with his well-being.

 

_This isn't how things are supposed to be._

 

She meant every word, and that was what she hated the most.

 

“Vivi—” Arthur began.

 

Vivi sighed, and crouched a bit so as to be level with him, seated as she was.

 

“I'm really sorry,” he said. “I didn't want to, I just... didn't know what else to do.”

 

“Yeah. I actually _do_ believe that,” Vivi said, making sure she sounded as sincere as possible. “And yeah, I also believe you were trying to make me happy.” Or at least, she mentally amended, what _Arthur_ thought of as her being happy. “But....”

 

He shrank back, like a child awaiting a scolding.

 

Vivi grunted in frustrating and stood up straighter. “This isn't supposed to be the conversation we're having. I'm really not trying to condemn you again—it was an awful situation, you didn't know what to do. Gosh help me, I don't know what _I'd_ have done in your shoes, and I really hope I don't ever have to find out.

 

“Still, though....” She looked down at the floor, hands balling up. “When I look back at the past year, at you and me... you pulled together a lot of lies. They sure weren't all perfect, and all things considered I guess they didn't have to be, but—” she forced herself to look him in the eye, remembering a year of increasingly quick, smooth responses to awkward questions. “You got practice, didn't you? You got _really good_ at lying to me.”

 

“Vivi,” said Lewis's voice from behind her. She turned around. “I don't think he's lying about seeing me.”

 

“What?” she said. “What, are you admitting—”

 

“No, no, _para nada_. I didn't do that to him. But he wouldn't lie to make me look bad.”

 

Vivi took a breath. “Okay. So, just so everything's straight... _you_ claim you saw _him_ ,” she said, pointing at Arthur and Lewis in turn, “and he gave you the fright of your life. And _you—_ ” she jabbed her finger at Lewis once more “—say you didn't do it... but you also _believe_ that he saw you do it.”

 

She looked from side to side, seeing two cautious nods. “So what the _hell?_ ”

 

* * *

 

_It's just stuff_. That's what Juan Pepper had said. As he looked back, though, he had to admit it was a _lot_ of stuff. Lewis's actions had broken clean through a cabinet door, spraying splinters all over the stovetop beneath and spilling pans down to the floor.

 

One broken door, and one more broken kid. He sighed, and walked to the bathroom to get a broom. _Well, I know what to do with those._

 

It took him much of an hour, but he managed to wash the fallen pans and sweep up the splinters. As he swept the last pile into the trash, he heard a tinkling, and peered more closely at the pile: something within glittered faintly. Juan reached in and pulled out Lewis's key, placing it carefully on the shelf.

 

He was unscrewing the broken door's hinges when he heard the back door open, and saw Lewis walking in. “Lewis,” he said, sighing in relief. “How, um, how are you doing?”

 

Lewis didn't break stride. He grabbed a handle from the knife block and pulled out the largest knife. As he held the blade at Juan's neck, his whole appearance flashed, and—

 

Gaping hole. Rotten eyes. Vacant rictus grin, with the lips pulled back to the cheeks.

 

Before Juan could so much as wince, the vision was gone, and his son was back—at least at first glance. As Juan stared into his eyes, he realized: this Lewis didn't have glowing sockets, he had eyes. “You're not my son,” he whispered.

 

“Matter of opinion, at best,” said the thing that looked like Lewis. It pressed the knife harder against Mr. Pepper's throat, and forced his other hand down to Juan's waist to feel at his sides. “Phone. Which pocket?”

 

Juan glanced down and to his left for just a moment, and the thing saw. It pushed its hand into that pocket and grabbed his cell phone. “Your wife's name is Tia, right?” it asked, swiping into his contacts. Juan suddenly regretted not password-protecting his phone.

 

A few rings sounded out, during which time the thing put a finger to its lips. Juan took the hint. Eventually, he heard his wife's voice very faintly: “Juan?”

 

“Actually it's me, Lewis!” The thing smiled broadly. “Sorry, borrowed Dad's phone since, y'know, don't have one of my own right now. Hi, Mom!”

 

“Lewis? Why are you calling? I have to get the girls off to school.”

 

“Yeah, about that, I was actually calling to say... something _really special_ has happened here.” The thing casually reclined against the counter, still with the blade on Mr. Pepper's neck. “Really special, really unbelievable. And I know it might sound like an imposition, but you should bring the whole family here right now, fast as you can.”

 

“What do you mean? What's happened?”

 

“Come on, Mom, that would be ruining the surprise! But trust me, you're gonna love it. Right, Dad?”

 

The thing leaned toward Mr. Pepper, holding the phone near his mouth, and winked. _Tell her not to come,_ Mr. Pepper told himself. _Tell her not to come, that it's a trap, to call the cops._

 

“Wait a moment,” Tia said, and Juan—with sudden, rising horror—heard an excited, sly note in her voice. “Don't tell me you've managed to finish that Heaven and Hell Cake.”

 

“N-no,” Mr. Pepper stammered. “Tia—”

 

“You see?” the thing interjected, pulling back the phone. “He can't tell you, I can't tell you, because you gotta come _here_! Come on, you can bring the kids for a bit before they head to school, right?”

 

“I suppose,” Tia said. Juan's throat felt like it was closing up.

 

“Then come on! We'll see you soon! Love ya, Mom, bye.”

 

The thing ended the call and tossed the phone away: it landed in the sink. “Oh, what's with that face,” it said, leaning in close to Juan.

 

“What are you going to do to them?” Juan choked out. _I didn't say anything_ , he thought. _I just betrayed my family._

 

“The same thing,” it growled, “that I'm going to do to _you_.” Suddenly it broke out in a grin. “Nothing! Seriously, I just need you guys here. It's your son that I'm interested in—you know, Mr. Angry and Dead?”

 

Juan opened his mouth again, and the thing put a finger to his lips. “And before you ask, it's not what I'm going to do to _him_ , it's what _he's_ going to do to _me_. Or, really, do _for_ me.”

 

Juan stared at him. “Then what do you want?”

 

The thing growled in frustration. “Look, I'll make it simple for you. Why do you think I came to a restaurant?” It pressed Juan against the wall. “I'm here because I need a _meal_.”

 

* * *

 

 

_Deep breaths_ , Vivi told herself, as she leaned into a wall facing away from both Lewis and Arthur. One of her hands was clamped around the other wrist. _Pulse, and breathing. I've got those, so it should work, right?_

 

_Right._ The deep breath she was going for took on a shuddering quality. _Right. Which one's right?_ She glanced _They can't both be..._

 

Her eyes opened. _Duh!_

 

“You're both right,” she said.

 

She turned to face the other two, who looked perplexed at best. “What?” Arthur said.

 

“You're both telling the truth. Or—” Vivi took a deep breath “—for the sake, just one last time, of assuming the best in everyone, I am going to _act_ as though you're both telling the truth.”

 

“That doesn't make any sense, though,” Arthur said.

 

Vivi snorted. “You wanna maybe look a foot or two to your left, Art? Before you talk about not making sense?”

 

“But he's right,” said Lewis, gently floating a foot or two to Arthur's left. “I said I was at the mansion the whole time, Arthur said I came here and attacked him—”

 

“Correction!” Vivi raised her pointer finger triumphantly. “Arthur said something that _looked_ like you came here and attacked him. Who says that has to be you?”

 

When the two of them still seemed uncertain of her point—despite the very dramatic _literal_ point she'd just performed, for their benefit—Vivi had to grunt in frustration. “Come _on_. Is it really too much to believe that there could be a shapeshifter, or an illusionist, or a boggart or something that _looked_ like Lewis and attacked Arthur? I mean, my _dog_ is more-or-less a shapeshifter, they can't be _that_ rare.”

 

It was dawning on them now. “What do we do?” Lewis asked.

 

“We go back to basics.” Vivi held up one finger. “What did this?”

 

She held up another finger, but Arthur spoke first: “How did they do it?”

 

“And why?” Lewis finished.

 

Vivi nodded as she raised the third finger. “So let's get to work. Arthur!” she said, pointing dramatically once more, this time in his direction. “Take off your shirt.”

 

Arthur blinked at her.

 

Ah, there was the seven-minute pause again. Vivi saw perplexity scrawled across Arthur's face like a messily-written draft. “I think I—you lost me at the end there,” he said with a slight chuckle.

 

“Uh... the shirt. Come on, that's where the whatever-it-was touched you, right? Maybe it left some sort of residue we can examine, and it'll be easier to do when it's off you. Can you clean the desk off?” she asked Lewis, and he swept the sawdust and scraps from the desk as Arthur pulled his shirt over his head. Vivi winced to see the rest of the bruises that hadn't shown themselves through the hole for his neck.

 

“Got a magnifying glass?” Vivi asked. Arthur handed her one, and she peered at the shirt. At first there wasn't much to see but sweat and fabric.

 

“What are you looking for?” Lewis asked.

 

“Sheddings, basically. People leave dead skin everywhere they go, you know. We shed like crazy! Carpets of dead skin everywhere you....” Vivi saw Arthur wincing to her side, and cut herself short. “Shower regularly, that's all I'm saying. Anyway, people leave skin, dogs leave hair, and _shapeshifters_ leave _other_ stuff. Say, like goop or somesuch. Maybe I'll be able to find something like that.”

 

At first, all she saw was the sort of stuff that would be on Arthur's shirt normally: sweat stains, dead skin, and bits of hair. However, as she continued to look....

 

_As she_ continued _to look_ , she mentally narrated. _As she continued to look...._ She sighed mentally, resigning herself to what was always the less fun part: the painstaking search for clues. Despite her efforts, all she saw was more skin, and... hair?

 

She squinted. _Wait a second._ This hair wasn't in any of Arthur's several hair colors: neither light orange nor darker orange nor brown. This was something darker, and almost black, but if she squinted she could make out another color: _purple_.

 

_Deep breaths_ , she ordered herself, as her lungs threatened exactly the opposite. Something wasn't right here. “Lewis?” she said, turning to face him. “Could you crouch a bit?”

 

Lewis complied. “Thanks,” Vivi said. She grabbed his pompadour and yanked out a hair.

 

“Ow!” Lewis said, flinching as Vivi watched the single hair evaporate into purple flame in her hand. She tensed her fingers at the sudden heat. “What was that for?”

 

“So, you don't know what I was doing. Good.” Vivi's smile was matter-of-fact. “Then your hair didn't just burn up because you told it to, right? It just does that on its own, because it's not normal hair, it's weird ghost-head-fire-hair stuff.”

 

“Yes...?”

 

“Which means that _this_ purple hair,” Vivi continued, grabbing the offender from Arthur's shirt and lifting it up to see, “cannot possibly be yours, right?”

 

Lewis's empty eyes widened, and so did Arthur's. “What... a shapeshifter wouldn't leave that, right?” Arthur said.

 

“Unless they, like, had purple hair in their base form, and who do we know who has purple hair besides Lewis and the Peppers?” Vivi scratched her head. “Seriously, whose hair could this....” She trailed off as a very un-fun possibility occurred to her. “Arthur,” she said, tossing his shirt back to him, “you said that whatever attacked you looked like Lewis's rotting corpse, right?”

 

“Uh, y-yeah,” Arthur stammered, as he pulled the shirt over his head once more.

 

Vivi clenched her jaw. _Oh, smack me in the smoocher._ “Uh, yeah, I don't think it was particularly a shapeshifter. I think it was, um... that.”

 

“You mean—” Arthur's eyes got even wider, somehow. “Oh, god.” He looked down at the shirt he had, perhaps unwisely, just redonned.

 

Vivi had already pulled out her phone, and was pulling up the browser. “I think I've read about something like this before,” she said, typing quickly as she spoke. “It wouldn't be just a zombie, it seemed too intelligent and deceptive, and it's weird how _much_ it was trying to torment you—no, this is something else. Something more _intelligent_.”

 

She raised up her phone for the two of them to view. She'd navigated to a webpage, and they could both read its header: _Vetala._

 

“Oh, god,” Arthur repeated, hand pressed against his bruised mouth. “I may need to try to vom again.”

 

Lewis read the description provided by the website. “A demon from Hindu mythology... it possesses the bodies of the deceased and drives the living insane.” His fist trembled. “That thing's _in my body?_ ”

 

“Exactly. That's what—” Vivi's phone buzzed, and she looked at it to see she was getting a call from Mr. Pepper. “Oh, come on, not _now_ ,” she muttered, cancelling the call. “That's what scared the nightlights out of Arthur, and that's what did _this,_ too.” She pulled up the news article she'd been reading over breakfast, the one of the break-in by the intruder who smelled of death. “That's two out of three—we know _what_ this thing is and _how_ it attacked Arthur, but _why_?”

 

Vivi grabbed her glasses to clean them off. “I mean, it can't just be doing it for craps and chuckles, right? It's got a specific modi operandus, it does one thing over and over again over hundreds of years, _thousands_ of years, so _why?_ ”

 

“ _Aguanta_ ,” Lewis interjected. “Arthur, today, before I nearly....” He looked down, his hair covering his eyes, and mumbled, “hurt you....”

 

With apparent effort, he looked straight at Arthur once more. “You said something about what I told you last night. Except I spent last night trying to sleep.”

 

“But, you....” Arthur blinked, then grunted and sagged a bit against the table. “Of course. It was that thing.”

 

“Arthur.” Lewis bent down a bit, leaning slightly over Arthur at his eye level. “What did the two of you talk about?”

 

However, Arthur was averting his eyes. “Heh. I thought you forgave me....”

 

“Arthur?”

 

Arthur continued to chuckle, leaning further back.

 

“ _Arthur!_ ”

 

“Oh, sorry.” Arthur stopped chuckling but didn't look up at Lewis. “He, it, maybe... whatever, _it_ came in looking all corpsey, and I figured that was just you trying to get one over on me.” Lewis winced a bit at the supposition.

 

“And then it asked me what happened in the... what happened when you fell,” Arthur continued. “I said that Mystery had already told you, but it said it wanted to hear from me... maybe that should have been a clue, right?”

 

“Oh, jinkies crinkies,” Vivi muttered. “The vetala knows you were fine with talking about Lewis despite him being dead, that means it knows Lewis is a ghost. That's _gotta_ be piquing its interest.”

 

“Sure,” Lewis said. “But why is it after Arthur?”

 

“No, I don't think it is. Not anymore.” Vivi turned to face Lewis. “It's after—”

 

Her phone rang, _again_. With a growl of annoyance, Vivi yanked out her phone and saw Mr. Pepper on the caller ID once again. She pulled it to her ear. “What _is it_ , Mr. Pepper?”

 

“You must be my girlfriend,” said the deep, frighteningly familiar voice on the other end. “ _Hello_ , Vivi!”

 

Vivi's phone shook in her hand, and she made the effort not to drop it.

 

“So, uh...” said the vetala on the other end. “Whatcha wearing?” She imagined Lewis's face smeared with a twisted smirk, saying those words.

 

“What... did you do... to Mr. Pepper?” she said as deliberately as she could. In the corner of her eye, she saw Lewis look her way, and his eyes go bright. _Oh, no._

 

“Oh, basically nothing. Just, y'know, helped him organize a big family get-together at the restaurant. Actually, I'll put him on—” She heard frantic breathing, and then the vetala's voice, more distantly: “Come on, Dad, don't be shy, it was a team effort! Tell her—”

 

Lewis's hand closed around hers, and he yanked her up as he pulled the phone to his ear. With how easily she was lifted, she might as well not have existed. “ _Where is my father?_ ” he said.

 

“Lewis,” Mr. Pepper gasped. Vivi was hanging from Lewis's arm, her ear pressed against the back of the phone to hear any of it.

 

“ _Papa_ ,” Lewis whispered. “Are you hurt?”

 

“Lewis, I'm sorry.” The words came out as sobs. “He's—he looks like you, and he's got Tia, and the kids—I could have told them not to come, but I was terrified—”

 

Lewis's hand was shaking. Little purple patches appeared all over his face, like acne—but Vivi realized within a second what they really were: embers. His face burned away like old paper, leaving the jawless skull behind. “ _Where are you_ ,” he hissed, and Vivi heard echoes resonate throughout the room.

 

“All right, that's enough chitchat, time for brasstacks and all,” said the vetala. Now that Vivi could hear them both, the difference in their uses of the same voice was obvious. The vetala might have sounded like Lewis superficially, but its snarky, sarcastic tone seemed almost _designed_ to make people furious with it.

 

_Wait_ , she realized, _not 'almost'_. _Actually designed._

 

“Look, it's great talking over the phone, but imagine how surreal it's gonna be if you show up here in person? We could do, like, a Marx Brothers routine!” The vetala laughed. “Hah, no, but seriously, I'm holding your family hostage at your dad's restaurant. If you wanna save them, get the hell over here so I can get a _meal_.”

 

The line went dead.

 

Lewis was still shaking for a moment. Then, an inarticulate scream of rage left him, and he threw Vivi's phone toward the floor. Vivi, still holding onto the phone, hit her knees hard as Lewis strode toward the door. “Lewis, wait!” she yelled, as he batted the dangling office door out of his way.

 

He didn't seem to notice she'd said anything, and she could feel the heat pouring off him. She ran toward him, put herself in front of him, and screamed, “You're doing what it wants!”

 

He stopped, but his eyes still blazed with a bright, monotone magenta. She got the feeling that she would have to explain quickly. “It said it wanted a _meal_ , right? That exact word. It doesn't just inspire anger, it _feeds_ on anger, and it must know _you're_ the biggest source around! If you go there like this, you're gonna power it up, and you might not even be able to kill it!”

 

The brightness in his eyes dimmed a bit, and shrank so she could see some of the black around it inside his sockets. “What, I shouldn't go?”

 

“No, you should go, but listen!” she yelled, as he made to move again. “The attack on that couple last night, the attack on your family, those are _really risky_ moves. It's desperate. I think it's low on energy. If you can go in there, get your family out, and not be provoked, you can _starve it_ to death.”

 

Lewis's clenched hands were shaking again. Vivi was starting to take this as a sign that he was angry, but still capable of being talked down: it was when he was stock still that he was beyond reason. “I can't control it,” he choked out.

 

“You _have_ to,” Vivi said. “Or this thing's gonna escape. And somewhere, somewhen, it's going to put some other family through all this.”

 

Before Lewis could speak, Arthur had appeared by his side. “We'll help you,” he said. “I mean, we might be able to help you keep your... cool, so to speak.”

 

“Not a time for puns, Arthur,” Vivi said. The three of them faced the door. “Let's run.”

 

* * *

 

The _thing_ wearing Lewis's body like a ratty old shirt grunted as it heaved one of the ovens in front of the back door. The Peppers, huddled in the pantry's doorway, watched as it crossed the room, still holding the knife, to the other oven. With a second grunt of effort, it ripped that one from the floor—a piece of equipment weighing hundreds of pounds!—and carried it to the restaurant-side door.

 

“It's going to be okay,” Mrs. Pepper kept repeating, brushing her hand through Cherry's hair as she held all three of their girls tight. “It's going to be okay.”

 

“And _there_ we go!”

 

The floor shook as the thing dropped the oven to the floor, barricading the door. “Presto!” it said, waving the knife as part of an excited gesticulation. “Now no one can get in or out, except for one very _relevant_ person.”


	18. The First-Case Scenario—Suburban Showdown

There was one good thing about being a ghost—only one, as far as Lewis could think. He didn’t have to run to save his family: he could skim forward across the ground, as if caught in a wind tunnel, while Vivi and Arthur behind him struggled to keep up with their clumsy steps.

 

He didn’t feel like he was moving forward, though. No, it felt like falling, as if the center of the earth were Pepper Paradiso’s kitchen and he was plummeting toward it.

 

Falling, again.

 

The streets weren’t empty: children walked to school, some of them escorted by their families. Distantly, he saw some of them staring, and heard faint words as if through water.

 

“Mom, he’s floating!”

 

“He looks like that Pepper guy who died, doesn’t he?”

 

“Christ, his _eyes—_ ”

 

Phones were emerging from their pockets to snap photos. Lewis felt an electric thrumming course through his body, and he clenched his fists. Abrupt, startled shouts filled the air as purple sparks twisted around every exposed electronic device, and cars all along the street stalled simultaneously.

 

He kept falling. Faster and faster, as he drew closer to the black hole pulling him in.

 

_Calm. Stay calm._

 

Gravity distorts the universe: objects apparently curving through empty space actually move in straight lines through curved space. Lewis didn’t feel as if he was taking a left at one street, then a right at another—he felt as though he surged forward in a straight line, with the world remapping itself around him to accommodate.

 

Yet faster he flew, and now Pepper Paradiso’s front door was distantly visible. Yet faster, and within seconds it filled his vision. He kept all his speed as he flew through it, through the tables and the chairs stacked upon them—

 

“Here he comes!”

 

He landed, hard, just outside the kitchen. He’d just heard his voice coming from within.

 

“Oh, he’s stopped outside, must have got stage-fright. He’s very timid.” Lewis heard the vetala take a deep breath through its nose— _his own_ _nose!_ —as if savoring a sumptuous aroma. “Let’s just wait for him to come in and save your lives, and remember, _be supportive_.”

 

“Lewis!” Bell shrieked from inside.

 

Lewis felt a brightness filling his eyes. He stepped forward—

 

A hand rested on his back. “ _Wait_ ,” Vivi panted from behind him. Lewis looked around to see she’d just caught up to him, with Arthur lagging through the restaurant’s entrance. “You calm?”

 

He trembled. “No.”

 

“He’s probably already… feeding on you,” she said, leaning into him in her exhaustion. “Find something that… makes you calm. Something that’s not just… pulse or breathing. Focus on that.”

 

“Like what,” he hissed, “ _family?_ ” He heard hissing continue after his voice ended—the hissing of a fire starting up. _Quiet_ , he thought, clenching his fist once more, and forcing back the flame that threatened to engulf him.

 

Forcing it back. “I’ll tamp it down,” he said. “I’ll keep control. It won’t be calm but it might be enough.”

 

She looked up at him, her jaw set with worry. “What choice do I have?” he whispered, keeping his voice low.

 

Vivi’s worried expression didn’t change, but after a few seconds, she nodded.

 

“Lewis,” said the voice from within, “come on. Don’t hold out on me here!”

 

He made to step forward, but then Arthur spoke up: “Lew,” he said, slouched over with his hands on his knees, trying to recuperate, “your locket. Your anchor.”

 

Lewis stared at him for a moment, but then understood: the last time the locket had gotten cracked, it had hurt him badly. It was probably his anchor to the world of the living. If the vetala damaged it too much—

 

He reached into his waistcoat and withdrew the damaged locket, noticing its coloration: stripes pink and red and purple. Bending down, he offered it to Vivi. “Keep it safe for me.”

 

She drew away for a moment of hesitation, but finally lifted her hands and let him place the locket in her grasp. “I promise,” she said.

 

Lewis stood up straight and strode through the door.

 

“And… there he is!”

 

The first thing Lewis saw was his own smiling face, for the vetala was there, standing proudly in front of him. It clapped slowly, sardonically, with one open palm against a closed fist: the closed fist held a large carving knife. “The man of the hour—the man of the _century—_ Lewis Pepper! Everyone, give him a big round of applause! Oh, wait—” it held its open hand’s fingers to its mouth in a perversion of embarrassment “—Lewis _Hernandez_ , sorry.”

 

“Lewis!” Cherry screamed. She was the next thing he saw, as he looked in the direction of her voice: Cherry, Bell, and Ginnie huddled in a corner of the room with his parents. They were right by the back exit, but an uprooted oven blocked the door, trapping them inside. Lewis looked down to see another oven in front of the door he’d just stepped through—in fact, he was standing _in_ the oven, with his waist and legs vanishing into the stovetop. He stepped forward again, exposing his lower half.

 

“Ah, there’s the rest of you! Now we can really be twins!” The vetala, still beaming, stepped in front of him and stared: Lewis stared right back. _Don’t_ _give it_ _an inch_ _._

 

“Sorry I had to borrow this old thing,” the vetala said, raising one hand and wiggling the fingers. “But hey, you weren’t using it anyway. You aren’t, like, _mad_ , are ya?” it asked, affecting a strange, almost Valley Girl accent.

 

Lewis’s jaw was clenched. He didn’t say anything. Instead, he turned around and placed his hands on the oven. Before he could lift it, the vetala had draped its body over the stovetop. “Whatcha doin’?” it asked, as Lewis tried to lift the oven—but with the extra weight on top, he couldn’t budge it.

 

At least, not without getting angry. He turned back around, looking away from the vetala. “Come _onnnnn_ ,” it whined, “pay attention to me!”

 

“It’s working,” Vivi called out from behind the door. “You’re not giving it anything to feed on!”

 

The vetala laughed. “Oh, Vi, you’ve got me pegged! If he doesn’t show any anger, I can’t gain energy from the anger, very good! Except, uh, news flasherino.” It righted itself from behind Lewis and circled back to his front, smirking. “Who the hell ever said he had to _express_ it? I’m still getting a niiiice stream from Mr. Yellowstone Caldera over here.” It took another deep breath for effect. “So, well, _not_ very good after all. Sorry, babe.”

 

“It’s lying. Don’t listen to it!” she yelled. Lewis didn’t look around at her, but kept his gaze locked forward. He would be patience on the monument.

 

“Come on, there’s a very easy way to make this go quickly. Just reach back, like so….” The vetala hauled its arm back, then brought its fist to its face in slow motion. “And _hit_ me,” it continued, as the two connected. “Pshooooo. Come on, I know you’ll feel better. I’m giving you a free shot, just do it! _Let it all out!_ ” it screamed into his face.

 

Lewis felt his arm tremble, felt his nails piercing into his palm.

 

“Lewis! Listen to me!” Vivi called out. “One! Two! Three! Four!”

 

Lewis looked back her way, confused. “One, two, three, four,” she kept counting. “One, two, three, four.” After a moment, he understood: a regular count, steady in rhythm.

 

_Sixty-four counts per minute._

 

Something he could focus on. He closed his eyes.

 

“Come on! We all know you want this!” The vetala circled Lewis steadily, its tone becoming angrier, shouting over Vivi’s steady count, but not so loud that Lewis couldn’t hear her. “You just _love_ expressing that anger, don’t you? We all know it—I know it, _you_ know it, _Arthur_ certainly knows it.”

 

It laughed. “I mean, why else would he be so willing to expect you scaring the pants off him in the middle of the night. You make him feel so _sad_ , you know that? Makes me _sick—_ ”

 

Suddenly it cut itself off. _Why?_ Lewis asked himself, staying silent. In the background, he heard Vivi keeping up her count, and tried to redirect his attention to that. _Sixty counts per minute? Maybe seventy? Somewhere in that range._

 

“As I was saying,” it said, sounding slightly hesitant, “he knows it, you know it… ooh, that _cabinet_ knows it.” It backed away from Lewis, eyeing the cabinet that Lewis had smashed earlier that morning. “I mean, this was you, right? Now, why would you have been so angry about being here….”

 

It tapped its lips with the flat of the knife, and then its eyes widened. “Oh. Oh, this is beautiful. I couldn’t have _planned_ this, it’s so sublime.”

 

It looked back at him, over its shoulder, with a smile on its face as if it were sharing a secret. “So, you’ve noticed that I look _lively_ most of the time, instead of horrifyingly deceased? Us vetalas, we’ve got a trick. I think you might call it a _glamour_ , it fools the senses into perceiving me as what the deceased—that’s you—was like in life.”

 

Lewis made to move the oven again, when suddenly in the corner of his eye, he saw his family starting to cough. “ _All_ the senses,” the vetala continued. “Sight and hearing and smell and taste and touch, except whoopsie!” Its grin widened. “For the past thirty seconds or so, I’ve been a bit _lazy_ , and I’ve let my real odor out. A bit of _eau de_ mort. Probably why your family’s retching over there, and you didn’t notice a thing. That nose—” it ambled toward Lewis, and flicked him on the tip of the nose: Lewis struggled to stay still “—is just for shows, isn’t it?”

 

Lewis clenched his fist. Vivi was still counting. He could focus on that.

 

“Man, that _stinks_.” The vetala let out a single laugh. “I mean, it’s really gotta needle you, doesn’t it, that _I_ belong here more than you? At least I can smell, even if I just smell terrible.”

 

He felt heat rising in his chest. Vivi’s counting seemed fainter, and she seemed to be missing numbers, as if her voice were being transmitted by a frail radio signal.

 

“What kind of cook can’t even smell? And the eyes—I mean, at least _I_ can put these big ol’ beauties on display!” The vetala got on tiptoe and leaned in, so that Lewis was looking directly at his own eyes. “Must be tough. Land of the dead doesn’t want'cha, but you don’t belong with the living either. Hell, you never even took their last name—you _never_ belonged here, and you know it!”

 

The flames rose yet higher. He felt them in his neck. He couldn’t hear Vivi at all.

 

“I feel what you feel, twin of mine. It burns, doesn’t it.” The vetala winked. “So _burn_ _back_.”

 

A fireball emerged into Lewis’s hand, ready to be used.

 

* * *

 

“Holy—” With a cry, Vivi dropped to the ground, setting Lewis’s locket down as hastily as possible without damaging it. She was wringing them together as she winced, but Arthur could see her palms shining red: the locket was getting too hot to touch.

 

_Why’d_ _it_ _stop talking?_ Arthur wondered, as he looked back to the room to see Lewis tremble before his doppelganger. _Right after he said I made_ _it_ _sick._ _Like it said too much?_

 

“Said too much,” he mumbled. He _had_ been very sad the previous night, and the vetala hadn’t lingered very long. Vivi had called it desperate, but all those desperate moves had happened today.

 

_After_ he’d met the vetala.

 

“Vivi,” he whispered, crouching down and grabbing her shoulder. “He’d listen to you before me, right?”

 

She looked up from her burnt hands, her upper lip rising in a pout of confusion, even as her eyes remained wide.

 

He stared right into those eyes. “I need you to tell him something, right now.”

 

* * *

 

“Lewis! I know how to kill it for good!”

 

Lewis might as well have been wearing earplugs: the voice was clearly a scream from Vivi, standing not six feet from him, and yet it touched him as faintly as a whisper.

 

_Kill it for good?_

 

“Arthur figured it out—anger fuels the vetala, but grief hurts it! It’s like poison!”

 

Lewis glanced at the vetala, and for a moment he saw a flicker of unease on its face: a slight flinch back, a widening of the eyes. Then the vetala was beaming again. “Wow, my girlfriend gets the _craziest_ ideas sometimes! Don’t worry, babe, I still think you look cute anyway.”

 

It was lying.

 

Lewis looked down at the floor for a moment. He’d never tried this before—trying to invoke an emotion, rather than to smooth over it. Then he looked up and past the vetala, at his family.

 

At Ginnie. _I prayed you’d come back. Every night. I didn’t forget._

 

At Bell. _Why didn’t you come back sooner? I thought you liked me. Why didn’t you come back for me?_

 

At Cherry. _You can tell me how you did it, right? You can do anything!_

 

“Oh, no you don’t,” the vetala said, and Lewis registered in his peripheral vision that it was scowling. Lewis ignored it and kept looking, feeling his shoulders slack as the tension disappeared.

 

Mom. _Lewis… you’re…. Your eyes…._

 

The vetala pointed past Lewis, its finger shaking—with agitation, or with weakness? “You should have done the honorable thing and committed sati a year ago, you nosy prick!”

 

Dad. _We don’t take it out on the people we love!_

 

Lewis’s head hung limp on his neck. _I’m broken._

 

“Oh, I get it.”

 

The vetala grabbed his chin and lifted it up. “Your family’s making you sad, is that it?” It smiled thinly, with obvious effort. “All right, fair enough. I can sympathize. In fact, I can _help!_ ”

 

It released him, and in three quick strides it crossed the room to grab Mr. Pepper. “ _Dad!_ ” Bell shouted, as the vetala lifted him up by his wrists. Mrs. Pepper reached for him, tried to grab him, but the vetala was faster and pulled him away.

 

A jolt of electricity seemed to lance through Lewis. He thought he heard Vivi yell something behind him, or maybe he only imagined it—maybe nothing else around him was real, just what was happening in this room.

 

“Just so you know,” the vetala panted, dangling its captive in front of Lewis, “this wasn’t part of the plan, but I know when I’m cornered. If you’re not gonna open up for me _figuratively_ , then he’s gonna.” It pressed its knife against his neck. “ _Literally._ ”

 

“Lewis,” Mr. Pepper whispered. His teeth were bared as his neck tensed, and his feet kicked uselessly beneath him. The vetala drew the knife lightly across his neck, leaving a little cut, and he yelled in pain and fear.

 

The world was shaking, everything was blurring, and the room was crumbling. Lewis’s gaze fixed on the vetala. On its hands—on _his hands._

 

“I’m gonna carve him up so hard, you’ll need a _mop_ to clean up after!” it yelled, as the hand holding the knife shook, scratching the sharp edge against Mr. Pepper. “And then how are you gonna feel, Lewis Hernandez? _How is that going to make you feel?_ ”

 

He saw fire.

 

With a quicker step than he thought possible, he reached for the vetala’s neck—but quicker even than that, the vetala dropped the knife, threw Mr. Pepper to the floor, and grinned. Like it had just told the world’s funniest joke.

 

It was too late. Lewis locked his hand around the corpse’s neck, heaved it skyward in one frenzied motion—over his own head, the corpse’s heels striking the ceiling—and flung it against the opposite wall. It _slammed_ with enough force to leave a spiderweb of fractures around its back, surely hard enough to break every bone it had. But it just raised its head and kept _smiling._

 

Lewis advanced upon it and conjured up fire in his palms. He punched the vetala with his right fist, then his left, over and over until its face was a bloodless, charred pulp—and still, the smile.

 

Lewis opened up his fist, and let the flame held in front of it become not bigger, but hotter. It burned smaller and smaller, concentrated and glowing like a sun. The vetala lifted the remains of its head to look past him. “Mom,” it sputtered, its smile finally slackening as bits of itself rolled down from its mouth. “Dad.” Its arm twitched, as if it were trying to reach out its hand. “ _Help me._ ”

 

Lewis fired. Flame engulfed the vetala, and it screamed as it was transformed into a silhouette. Lewis kept pouring flame forward, as much as he could muster, and the silhouette lost its definition, until he couldn’t even see it anymore.

 

He let up for a moment and saw a barely-human charred husk—and then started again. And again, and again, until he heaved with exertion, even without lungs. Again and again and again, until there was nothing to see but cremated ashes, and the charred specks of wallpaper almost indistinguishable amid them. _Nothing._ Lewis stomped on the ashes, once twice _thrice_ , until he didn’t even see the point anymore.

 

He glanced back at his family, and saw them protecting their faces with their hands: Mrs. Pepper had crawled forward to grab Mr. Pepper and shield him. They were beginning to lower their hands and stare at him, and he saw their horror in the straining of their eyes. He didn’t need to look down at himself: he knew what he looked like.

 

A faint rustling noise stirred behind him.

 

He turned around to see the ashes swirling. They rose up into the air, like a miniature dust devil, and as they spun ever faster they coalesced into an ashen cocoon. Seconds passed, the cocoon became more rigid, and eventually it slowed and halted its rotation. Lewis regarded it, immobile, as it hung in the air.

 

“No,” Vivi said. “No no no!” He ignored her.

 

Two skeletal hands broke through the front of the cocoon, sending dust drifting to the floor. They pulled outward, breaking the shell in two, and revealing what could only be the vetala’s true form.

 

“You know what? I was almost worried for a moment there!” It grinned at him, for it could do little else. In shape the vetala looked most like a skeleton, but taller and thinner than even Lewis—and its form was made not of bone, but what appeared to be ceramic. Bright blues and whites drew geometric designs all over its ‘bones’, like decorative pottery. At its back hung two giant wings, made of the same ceramic-bone construct and similarly decorated.

 

“You were doing pretty well with that grief thing,” it said, stretching out its arms to the sides with an easy, fluid energy so unlike its agitation of a minute before. Now that it wasn’t using Lewis’s body, its voice was strangely delicate, and seemed to ring like chimes, leaving slight reverberations after it passed. “And then at the end, I thought you might have gone too rough, but then, _oh!_ Such a _climax_ to that fight! Was it as good for you?”

 

Lewis didn’t move. He stared it in its painted eyeholes.

 

“Well, I’m sated for a decade or two.” The vetala crouched a little, and raised its wings. “But then, how about I come back and we can dance this dance again? I mean, if you don’t _mind_. No hard feelings, right?”

 

With a single snicker, it jumped off the ground and flapped its wings, holding itself in the air at a consistent height for a few seconds. Then it pumped harder and ascended, its head and body rising through the ceiling with the ease of an incorporeal being.

 

Lewis watched it fly up, still without moving. Then, with great deliberation, he reached up and grabbed its ankle just before it disappeared through the ceiling. In a sudden _explosion_ of movement, he ripped the vetala down and smashed its full length against the floor.

 

He stood over the vetala, a tombstone looming over his plot. The vetala gasped. “What the—how are you—”

 

_How?_ Lewis thought. _Because I’m like you._

 

He enjoyed the slight pleasure of seeing it express as much fear as a skull could, before he stomped on its ribcage and crushed it, hearing a sound like broken pottery as his reward. Before the vetala even had time to shriek in agony, his palm was pointed downward, and his attack blasted forth like a rocket’s flare.

 

The vetala’s high, keening scream was immediately drowned out by the rush of the fire, and this time Lewis didn’t let up for half a minute. When he finally stopped his fire, there was nothing left. Not even ashes.

 

Lewis stood up straight. He glanced at his family, just long enough to see them huddled together and staring with something that had to be beyond even horror. “That was,” Bell began, without finishing. “That was… that….” The other four just stared without speaking. They were closed together, safely away from him. Away from the skeletal monster that had just brutally beaten and destroyed Lewis’s body.

 

The glance ended. Lewis turned his attention to the stove against the kitchen’s swinging door, blocking his family inside. He wound back and punched it, and the strength that had eluded him in his human form made itself apparent: the oven crumpled, careened across the floor, and smashed into the corner, covering over Lewis’s corpse’s ashes.

 

Lewis pushed the door open, and saw Vivi and Arthur standing there: Vivi with her mouth wide, Arthur with his eyes and posture sagging. Lewis made to walk forward, out of the restaurant—but he stopped himself.

 

He turned to Arthur. “You said I forgave you,” he said, hearing the quiet echoes after his voice, “and you were wrong. But you’ve said, over and over, that you were sorry. And now I think that’s wrong too. And I wish I knew how to show you that you don’t have to be sorry, that _you_ deserve better.”

 

Arthur’s eyes still sagged, but his eyebrows rose a little in confusion. “But,” Lewis continued, leaning down to close some of the distance between his and Arthur’s eye levels, “if you’ve done anything this past year to hurt me, to hurt anyone? Then I forgive you.”

 

Arthur’s jaw worked up and down, setting his goatee shaking. “Why?” he finally managed to say.

 

“Because….” Lewis clenched and unclenched his fists. “It _hurts_. You see your own hands, hurting the people you love…. I just want it to stop hurting.”

 

He heard a crack from down low, and he winced—he almost crumpled, feeling a weakness in his middle. Lewis would have grit his teeth with discomfort, but in this form he had nothing to grit them against. He looked for the source of the noise, and saw his locket: gray and twitching on the ground, as more tiny cracks spiderwebbed across its surface. _How appropriate._

 

Vivi made to bend down and grab the locket, perhaps to offer it to him—but Lewis simply reached out his hand and watched it glide to his chest. It kept twitching, and he felt the pangs keep coming. Bell was still stammering behind him, his family was still staring, and Vivi and Arthur….

 

He didn’t know what to think. He didn’t want to.


	19. The First-Case Scenario—Call me Superman

“That was…” Bell began again, as Lewis walked out. She couldn’t find the right word, and she stopped talking.

 

Bell didn’t get it. Why was he walking out? She looked around at her family and she didn’t get it—what was their problem?

 

_All right. H_ _ave a good day at school,_ _you three_ _!_

 

Did they think the other guy looked like Lewis? Was that it? She squinted: even when Lewis looked like he’d used to, his eyes were still all weird. And right now he didn’t look like he used to at all.

 

_Yeah, and d_ _on’t get in any more fights, Bell._

 

Maybe they did think the other guy looked like Lewis—he had been possessing Lewis’s body, sure, Bell figured she could see where they were coming from—but that wasn’t what the other guy had looked like to her.

 

_You tattletale! Dad, it’s not what you think, they were picking on Cherry again!_

 

The other guy looked like the bullies from school. The ones who were mean to Cherry for being shy and crazy and having a dead brother, and most of all for being _there_. Doing bad things because they could. Bell looked down at her younger sister, still sitting on the floor with her face hidden from view. It felt like she’d done this a lot.

 

_Just because they were being mean, you still don’t get to hit them—_

 

That was what made her bad, right? Hitting the bad guys? Stooping to their level?

 

_I hate you!_

 

Except… no, that wasn’t the same! She’d tried ignoring them, Cherry had tried ignoring them, and it didn’t work! Bell’s fist clenched: she _hated_ hearing people say that, even when she knew they were right.

 

Except they weren’t.

 

But she thought they were right. She thought she was bad.

 

_Lewis would have sided with me!_

 

Bell looked up just in time to see him walk through the door. Something clicked in her head, like Lego bricks.

 

Her feet were moving before her head was finished putting things together.

 

* * *

 

_Away_. Lewis didn’t think the word—it was more like reading from some great stone monument, some source of undeniable truth. Not thinking, but accepting. He stepped through the door, walked forward to find someplace far away—

 

“That was awesome!”

 

Lewis stopped cold. Well, no, that wasn’t quite right—he simply _stopped_. Any notion of temperature, or indeed any other sensation, was right out the window, as he stood stock-still.

 

That was _what?_

 

He turned around to see Bell running through the restaurant, veering around tables as she shot toward him. Strangely enough, faced with the exact thing he had been so desperate to flee, he found himself rooted to the spot.

 

Bell reached his vicinity and stopped a couple of feet away—far enough that she wasn’t craning her neck to look at him, but close enough that her screams were a little uncomfortably shrill in his ears. “That was _awesome!_ That thing was gonna hurt Dad, and then you transformed in this big ball of fire, like _whoosh!_ ” she said, without leaving any time for breathing. “And then you beat him up and burned him up, and then when he tried to escape you burned him up again, like Ghost Rider or something! You’re a superhero!”

 

Lewis carefully considered her words, weighed his own, and finally replied with an impeccably chosen, “Whuh?”

 

“Lewis!” And now his mother was running out. She didn’t stop at the radius that Bell did, but plowed into his chest and grabbed him in a tight embrace—almost bone-cracking. “Thank you,” she said, in a harsh voice that verged on a sob. “ _Thank you._ ”

 

“What? But—” He realized with a start, and a flinch, that he wasn’t in his humanoid form. He didn’t have a _face_ , his hair was made of _fire_ , and all his ribs were jutting out—they _had_ to be poking Mrs. Pepper in the torso, and yet she was still squeezing him tight. Why didn’t she _care_?

 

“You’re not….” He looked up from his mother to see Mr. Pepper, and Ginnie, and Cherry making their way out of the restaurant. Mr. Pepper held the two girls’ hands. “You’re not afraid of me?” Lewis finally asked.

 

Mr. Pepper smiled a little. “Lewis, you’re my son, and you just saved my life. Why would we be afraid of you?”

 

He pulled the two girls forward: Ginnie pulled her hand loose of his and marched forward, smiling up at Lewis, whereas Cherry shied away a little. Mr. Pepper’s smile faltered a little, and he said, “She’ll come around.”

 

Then, Cherry lifted her free arm and put it in front of her eyes, and tugged on her dad’s arm. She walked forward, guided by the hand holding hers, until she bumped into Mrs. Pepper’s leg: then she raised the arm a little higher to look up at Lewis. She flinched, but didn’t step back.

 

Lewis stared at her, but movement in his peripheral vision managed to make him tear his gaze away, and he glanced up as the two final occupants of the restaurant exited. Vivi and Arthur were standing in the doorway, separated from the family gathering around him—but he could see their smiles.

 

His tear ducts didn’t work anymore, but most of the rest of him did. Lewis felt the shuddering sensation racking his body, and the gulping fluid that seemed to rise in his throat: this was when he would have started crying.

 

“But I failed!” he choked out., head slumping to rest on the top of his chest. “I couldn’t keep it in, I—I lost, I lost control! I….”

 

Mr. Pepper leaned in and put a hand on his shoulder. “Next time,” he said, “you’ll get it.”

 

A single laugh burst through Lewis’s sobs. Dad didn’t know when to quit.

 

He leaned forward, and the six of them joined in the largest hug he could manage. It felt good, he knew, to be held.

 

“Oh my _cheeses crust_ ,” Vivi said, gagging with her mouth buried in her face. Lewis stared at her in confusion, and she continued, “Oh, not you—well, kind of you, but—the _smell_.” She jerked her thumb back at the restaurant.

 

Lewis realized what she meant, just as Arthur seemed to notice the smell as well: his knees buckled, and he staggered away down the street with a hand clenching his nose. When Lewis had burned the vetala, that had in fact involved cremating a year-old rotting corpse. There had to be some bad smells associated with that.

 

Mr. Pepper winced as the smell reached him, and he jawed silently for a few seconds before managing to speak. “Wow,” he managed. “I am _so_ glad we didn’t notice that in there.”

 

The girls covered their noses in various ways, and although Mrs. Pepper didn’t seem to react, Lewis felt an increased pressure on his chest as she hugged him even tighter. “Sorry,” he said. “I can’t really smell it myself.”

 

“ _We_ ,” Mrs. Pepper said in a muffled voice, “will need to close the restaurant for a _month_.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

Mr. Pepper grimaced. “No kidding. Between the ovens getting ripped up, and that… that smell….” With a distracted manner, he turned around and—inexplicably—lifted his nose to sniff the air, as he ambled slowly toward the restaurant. After a few feet of this, he stopped. “That’s it,” he said.

 

“What?” Lewis said.

 

“That’s what it _needs!_ ” Mr. Pepper spun around with a wild smile arcing across his face. “That caustic, corpsey scent—lighter than this, of course, don’t want it to be overpowering—but that is _just_ the scent that’s missing! That’s the flavor that completes the Heaven and Hell Cake!”

 

Everyone on the scene turned to stare at him, without speaking. Finally, Ginnie let her hand drop from her mouth. “Dad,” she said. “What the _fuck_.”

 

Bell gasped. “ _Ginnie!_ ”


	20. Interlude III: The Scientist

“Take it,” Cherry said.

 

Her brother leaned forward in an old, upholstered chair. Its dark fabric combined with his skull face, funeral clothes, and lurid locket to paint a bleak, moody picture. Cherry imagined him in some of the poems from that Edgar Allan Poe book—Lewis had given it to her for Christmas a while before—and decided he fit perfectly.

 

Lewis looked down at the Sailor Moon-themed bandaid outstretched in Cherry’s hand, which did _not_ fit perfectly. “Cherry, thank you, but….” He looked down at his cracked locket, then back into her eyes. “I don’t know if this will help.”

 

“Bandaids always help. Take it!” She shoved it closer to his locket.

 

“That doesn’t seem to be how it heals,” he said, holding the locket in both hands. “And it’s already better than it was before, right?”

 

Cherry had to agree: before the locket had been cracked all the way across its front, but now the damage only went halfway across the face. She wasn’t sure when it had happened: one moment she’d seen it cracking worse than before in the restaurant, then they were all making up, and then the next time she’d gotten a look at it, all the new cracks were gone, and so was a lot of the old crack.

 

But that was no excuse. Cherry glanced up at him: just up enough to see the skull, and then she looked straight forward at the locket before she could see his fire—his _hair_. “You gotta put a bandaid on it,” she said, pouting because this was first grade stuff, and she was at least third grade smart: he knew more stuff than her in turn, so shouldn’t he know this stuff too? “So that it can heal properly.”

 

Lewis just kept looking at her—he saw his sockets staring blankly in her peripheral vision—so she groaned. “So your soul goo doesn’t leak out! Duh! You’re gonna get a ghost infection!”

 

“I don’t think I….” Lewis stopped talking, then laughed gently. “Well, all right.”

 

He didn’t move away as she pulled the paper off the bandaid and applied it, ever so carefully, to his locket’s crack. When she was done, the whole crack was covered, and Cherry smiled. “There,” she said. “Now mean ghosts can’t slip in and possess you.”

 

Lewis lifted a finger halfway before stopping and tilting his head; then the finger moved to rest lightly upon the bandaid. “Hmm.” He traced the length of the crack under its cover, wincing slightly as he did so. “Thank you,” he said. There was something in the way he held his head: even though she couldn’t see a mouth, she could see him smiling.

 

Cherry felt herself beaming—almost as if actual light was coming from her, not just a smile. “By the way,” she added, “there’s this thing I wanted to ask you, but Dad said to ask Mom, and Mom said to ask Dad, and maybe you know it?”

 

Lewis nodded, leaning toward her once more, still with that undefinable smile.

 

“You know that word Ginnie said yesterday, the one she got in trouble for?” His smile seemed to be disappearing. She persevered. “What does it—”

 

The phone rang from the kitchen. Lewis immediately stood from the seat and stepped clean over her head to stride over there. Cherry followed with a disappointed pout—but she’d be able to ask later.

 

Lewis picked up the phone. “Hello, Pepper household.” A pause, and then Cherry saw his shoulders relax a little with happiness, as he said, “Vivi!” Then, however, he frowned—well, his _face_ didn’t frown, because he didn’t have one at the moment, but his whole body sort of frowned. He leaned forward slightly, slumping his head with annoyance. Then, he groaned and pressed the ‘speaker’ button on the phone’s charging dock. Immediately, Vivi’s voice rang out:

 

“—gonna assume that’s Lewis trying to talk to me—Lewis, you’re a ghost now, regular cameras can’t _see_ you, and regular phones can’t _hear_ you. If that _is_ you on the other end, you’re gonna need someone to transcribe—trans-say, whatever—so that I can hear you, okay?”

 

“Would you, please?” Lewis murmured, glancing down at Cherry.

 

“I’m just gonna keep talking,” Vivi continued, “until I hear someone—”

 

“Hello?” Cherry asked.

 

There was a pause. “Bell! Hello, how are you doing?”

 

“I’m… Cherry.”

 

“Cherry, Cherry, oh my gadzooks I am sorry!” Nervous laughter came through the phone line. “The audio quality’s not that great. Anyway, Lewis is there, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Cherry replied.

 

“Hello, Vivi,” he said.

 

“He says hello.”

 

“Hi, Lewis! Okay, um. This is going to be weird if your little sister is the intermediary, but… _whatever_ , it was gonna be weird no matter how I said it. Lewis, I’d like for you to….”

 

A series of “ums” and “ahs” followed, as Vivi tried to figure out how to say whatever it was she was going to say. Meanwhile, something occurred to Cherry—how come a phone couldn’t hear Lewis, but she could?

 

She remembered what Dad had told her—sounds were actually vibrations in the air, and then they vibrated your ear and that was how you heard things. She pulled out a chair from under the kitchen counter, climbed up on it, and grabbed a napkin. “Testing,” she said, with the napkin almost touching her mouth: the napkin fluttered as she spoke.

 

“Okay, I think I’m ready,” Vivi said. “Still there, Lewis?”

 

“Yes,” he said. Cherry echoed him as she laboriously pushed the chair over to his side, the friction making sounds like a brass horn. “What are you doing?” he asked, looking down at her.

 

“What are you doing?” Cherry asked, then realized—with a blush appropriate to her name—that this line hadn’t been meant for Vivi.

 

“What I am doing,” Vivi replied, “is saying this: Lewis. I would like. For you. To come over to my house.”

 

Cherry was finished pushing the chair, and she clambered upon it again as Lewis leaned forward expectantly. She held the napkin in front of where his mouth would be.

 

“Privately,” Vivi added.

 

“Privately?” Lewis asked, eyesockets widening. The napkin didn’t flutter at all. Cherry repeated the word, the implications filling her mind. Mostly the implications about the napkin, though she knew 'privately’ probably implied things too, even if they weren’t as interesting things.

 

“Privately,” Vivi repeated. “Okay, wow, I guess we’ve probably said 'privately’ four times and I’m totally semantically satiated, privately privately privately _shut up Vivi_.” Resonant slapping sounds cut her off: she was probably smacking herself in the head. “It is not, let’s be clear, a date. Not exactly. But it is at least a friendly visit between two people, one of whom would like to get to know the other one better. So, uh, what times work for you this weekend?”

 

Lewis pressed his fingertips against his chest and scratched without seeming to realize it. “I… don’t have a job, per se, so… tell her any time,” he said, glancing down at Cherry before his stare returned to nothing in particular.

 

“Lewis says any time,” she said.

 

“Awesome! Okay, then let’s go for noon on Saturday. Sounds good to you?” Vivi’s voice was accelerating. “Sounds good to me. Oh, almost forgot, bring your violin, okay? Okay, Lewis and Cherry, thanks! Talk to you later! Bye!”

 

Cherry thought she heard a deep breath heaved on Vivi’s end of the line, one which sounded like the first of many, just before the call ended. Then again it could have been static. Whatever—the conclusions she could draw from this were huge!

 

“You’re psychic!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air.

 

“A date!” Lewis said, scratching his chest more rapidly. “A date with Vivi!”

 

“Lewis, didn’t you hear me? You’re a tele—wait,” Cherry said, squinting. “Didn’t she say it wasn’t a date?”

 

“My violin,” he said, turning around absentmindedly and walking out of the kitchen. For Lewis, it wasn’t a fast pace—for Cherry, whose legs clocked in at approximately a third of the length of his, it was pretty fast. “She wanted me to bring it. I think I left it in my room—it’s been a year, have Mom and Dad been tuning it?”

 

“Come on, Lewis, listen!” Cherry ran up the stairs behind him as he took them, with unthinking ease, three at a time. “If you’re not talking with regular sounds, then either you’ve gotta be talking with weird _ghost_ sounds, which is crazy, or you’re just using telepathy to talk right into people's—”

 

Lewis walked into his room, and forgot to open the door first. His body phased right through, leaving Cherry stuck outside. “Brains,” she finished.

 

She looked up and realized she wasn’t the only thing stuck outside. The Sailor Moon bandaid she’d applied not ten minutes before had failed to pass through the door with the rest of Lewis, and was now adhered to the dark brown wood.

 

Cherry frowned. Sometimes, Lewis didn’t know how to worry about the _important_ stuff.

 

* * *

 

Lewis stared at Vivi’s tiny, yellowing front lawn, and imagined the smell of October grass. Then he stepped up to her porch, violin case in hand.

 

He’d had all sorts of plans. An impressive entrance in a cloud of flame and smoke, astonishing Vivi as he appeared out of nowhere and swept her off her feet upon the doorstep. And perhaps a full choir of Deadbeats, who would have happily provided backing vocals on any lovesong he could have cared to name: “My Girl”, “Fly Me to the Moon”, anything—he could take his pick. Dozens of grand romantic gestures had paraded their way though his head, in the sleepless nights leading up to their date.

 

Except, of course, that it wasn’t a date. She’d been insistent on the point.

 

Lewis reached up to knock at Vivi’s simple, slightly disrepaired wooden door. He hesitated, opened his case, pulled out his violin, and quietly tested that it was in tune. Satisfied, he returned it to its case, and stood straighter as he knocked three times.

 

It wasn’t a date. Of course. But no point in doing this if he wasn’t doing it _right_ , after all. Fifth impressions were important.

 

After a couple of footsteps from inside, Vivi opened the door partway, and the first thing he noticed was the awkward smile on her face as she looked up. The second thing was the strap over her shoulder. “Vivi,” he said, nodding in greeting—was that enough? Should he do something friendlier?

 

“Hey there!” She half-extended her hand to shake, before raising it for a clumsy wave. “So, ready for our re-first non-date?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Or maybe our first re-non-date….”

 

“Perhaps—” Lewis decided: he offered his hand to shake. “Just a meeting.”

 

“What kinda made-up word is that?” Vivi laughed, and grabbed his hand. After a few good shakes, she quickly released it and turned slightly—Lewis made to walk forward, but she was just lifting the strap from her shoulder, and hefting what it was attached to.

 

“So,” she said, holding up her guitar in front of herself. “I found _this_ in my closet. Look familiar to you?”

 

Lewis’s eyes widened: he hadn’t seen it in a while. Vivi’s guitar wasn’t particularly well taken-care of: the clean curve defining the guitar’s face was marred with chips and scratches, like dog-ears in a well-read book. It looked a little dustier than he’d remembered—but yes, he recognized this.

 

“Because here’s the thing,” Vivi continued, “it doesn’t look familiar to me. I think I know how to play it a little bit, but I can hardly remember ever seeing this thing. I don’t remember noticing it all year—I must have been tripping over it and not realizing every time I used that dang closet.” She snorted with something like frustration. “Which _means_ , something about this guitar has a lot to do with _you_ , right?”

 

Lewis nodded. “We met a lot, before we were officially dating—you wanted me to help you learn to play the guitar. I told you I only knew how to play the violin, but you said it was close enough.”

 

“Well, it _is_ , isn’t it? They’re basically the same idea.”

 

“I eventually decided it was just an excuse to spend time with me.”

 

Well, it _is_ , isn't—” Vivi caught herself, with a blush that seemed to glow brighter than Lewis could. “Anyway, the point is that thanks to _you—_ ” she shot him a stink-eye, but without actual malice to it “—I no longer remember how to play guitar. So I was wondering if you’d be willing to help me relearn.”

 

Lewis smiled. “I would be delighted. May I come in?”

 

He rested his violin on his shoulder and, once more, made to step forward—but Vivi didn’t budge, and her shoulders were tensed. She stared up at him and, after a few seconds, blurted out, “So, how’s the family doing?”

 

His eyes narrowed as he gently lowered his foot. “Are you stalling?”

 

“Yes I am.” She looked relieved to have been found out: her shoulders relaxed immediately.

 

“Hm.” He considered this for a few seconds. “ _Why_ are you stalling?”

 

“Well.” Vivi leaned against the doorframe. “Erm. The thing is… the thing is….”

 

A compact white shape interposed itself between Vivi’s legs and the door. “I believe this is where _I_ come in.”

 

Lewis looked down at the voice, and saw Mystery—small dog Mystery, not giant kitsune Mystery—standing in front of her. “Hello, Lewis,” he said.

 

Lewis stared at him. “Hello, Mystery,” he said flatly.

 

“Sorry, am I butting into your _private_ time together? I wouldn’t want you to feel _uncomfortable_ just because I’m around.” Mystery wore the most self-satisfied grin Lewis could remember seeing. And Lewis distinctly remembered the vetala.

 

“Uh, yeah,” Vivi said, as her lean deepened into a slump. “He’s 'the thing’. Sorry.”

 

Lewis looked back her way, jabbing his index finger down. “What is _he_ doing here?”

 

Mystery laughed. “You know I _live_ here, right?”

 

“Ugh, come on in, I’ll tell you.” Vivi opened the door fully and walked inside, with a more sullen gait than Lewis was used to seeing.

 

* * *

 

_What a day._

 

Vivi slumped against her front door with a groan, dawdling for a minute before she pulled out her key. She hadn’t had much time to dally after the vetala was destroyed, and after Lewis reconciled with his family: she had to run back to Tome Tomb, if she wanted any chance at keeping a job.

 

Somehow, Duet had been satisfied with her vague explanation of “family troubles”, albeit after one of his weird, personal-space-invading forehead touches. So she’d gotten to keep her job—which was somewhat difficult to get excited about.

 

And then there had been _Chloe_ , and the _tedium_ , and her muscles _still_ aching, and just somehow her day had managed to be the perfect mix of _bad_ supernatural stuff and _bad_ mundane stuff. Like some sort of combination fan-vacuum, it both sucked and blew.

 

At last she pulled out her key, shoved it in the lock, and opened it. She was so ready to fall into a bed.

 

Vivi barely had time to comprehend the white blur of movement before it slammed her, knocking her hard on her back against the slats of the porch. She’d instinctively exhaled just before impact, so she didn’t have the wind knocked out of her, but that didn’t exactly make the experience _fun_. She blinked the spots out of her eyes.

 

When her vision cleared, she saw a tiny pair of yellow spectacles, resting on a panting snout in front of furious black eyes. “Er… hello, Hobbes?” she said, as hot, dry breaths abraded her face.

 

“That’s not my name,” Mystery growled. “What were you _thinking?_ ”

 

He was big. Not as gigantic as she’d ever seen him, but certainly bigger than the lap-dog he usually masqueraded as. This seemed to be an intermediate form, big enough to pin her but small enough to fit through her door. She could see a sort of haze behind his head where his tails would be—or maybe that was just the recent cranial trauma messing with her vision.

 

Vivi glared back at him, as best as she could. “Could you get more specific? And also, _off me?_ ” She struggled to lift her arm to push at him, but it was held down by his paw. Mystery had successfully held down Lewis, so Vivi guessed she didn’t have much chance of getting free, but she had to _try_.

 

“You were dealing with an immensely dangerous creature, and your best idea was to attack it with someone who would make it _more dangerous._ What were you _thinking?_ ”

 

“We _didn’t_ ,” Vivi said, enunciating each syllable in her frustration, “have a lot of _time—_ ”

 

“ _You had me!_ ”

 

Mystery’s fangs were bared, right up against her nose. He snarled again, before continuing, “Or at least you _would_ have had me if you’d _thought_. You could have come and gotten me, and I would have been in and out of that restaurant in a _minute_. No stupid _emotions_ , just one destroyed vetala!”

 

He pushed himself off of her, briefly putting a shock-load of force on Vivi’s forearms: she let out a muffled cry of pain, to her displeasure. He turned around and slowly walked back into the house. “What were you thinking,” he muttered.

 

With many a grunt of discomfort, Vivi pushed herself to her feet. “If you were so consarned concerned, maybe you could have come on your own? No one was stopping you.” She rubbed her inner forearms, trying to mitigate the pain, as she stumbled through the door.

 

Mystery glared at her over his shoulder, as he stalked his way over to the other end of the room. “I don’t know if you understand this, but I have a _cover_. There’s a _reason_ I don’t go around everywhere at full size, and it’s not just because of your pitiful human ceilings.”

 

“So come over as a regular dog!”

 

“How fast does a regular dog run? And that’s not the _point—_ the _point_ is that you need to start taking some responsibility for your team’s well-being.” Mystery turned in a circle on the spot, like an angry cat, then dropped into a resting position. His illusory tails curled around his entire body with their tips pointed slightly up, like some sort of huffy lotus flower.

 

“Oh, like _you_ did?” Vivi slumped onto her couch with the approximate grace and self-control of a crash test dummy. “Don’t act like _your_ phone call thing was any sort of great idea, either. Getting me to guilt-trip Lewis just _after_ the nick of time—what were _you_ thinking?” She flopped an accusatory hand at him.

 

“You’re all still _alive_ , aren’t you?” His eye swiveled her way, but the rest of his face stayed sullenly pointed away. He shifted a bit, burying his snout deeper into his body, and muttered, “At least the ones I could _keep_ alive, this time—”

 

Mystery cut himself off, and glanced her way: then, with a muffled growl, he turned entirely away.

 

Vivi sighed. From here, he looked… well, she was starting to get the feeling she wasn’t great at reading people, and she could only imagine reading dog-kitsune-intermediate-stage things would be even tougher. But, if she had to hazard a guess—and life seemed to be telling her, loud and clear, that she _did_ have to—then she’d have said that Mystery looked _worried_.

 

“Mystery,” she said, “I’m sorry I didn't—”

 

“Keys,” he interrupted, without moving.

 

Vivi blinked. “What?”

 

“Another reason I couldn’t exactly come on my own? You lock your condo up each day you leave for work, and you don’t leave a key in here. It’s like you think you live alone, without any other sentient creatures in the building.”

 

He uncurled a bit, enough to glare at her with both eyes, though without any apparent genuine anger. Or genuine anything, for that matter. All she saw was the smarmy, annoying amusement she was coming to _really_ dislike. “For all my many talents, Vivi, I’m not very good at opening locked doors. No—let me rephrase that.” He laughed, briefly, and in a way that seemed designed to flash as many teeth as possible. “I am _exceptional_ at opening locked doors, provided you won’t ever need to close the door afterward. But I think you might prefer to just leave me a spare key.”

 

Vivi inelegantly shoved her hand into her pocket: jack-kitsune though he might be, Mystery had a point. “Here,” she said, as she pulled out her keyring, wound her spare key from it, and tossed it onto his body. “Where are you going to put it?”

 

“You let _me_ worry about where I’m going to put it.”

 

Vivi sighed with indifference and let her eyes sag shut, ready and willing to take a nap without transferring herself the few feet to her bed. Her breathing became regular, all ambient noise faded away, and then she felt the couch sinking to her sides, sinking into two points of pressure.

 

With great regret, she opened her eyes once more to see Mystery’s eyes not three inches away, his paws surrounding her legs. “Actually,” he said, “as long as we’re talking, here’s a few more _ground rules_.”

 

* * *

 

“And one of the ground rules is, whenever I’m in contact with any potentially dangerous supernatural entity, Mystery wants to be there. And potentially dangerous supernatural entities includes you.”

 

Vivi slung her guitar into her arms and leaned against the wall as she finished speaking, too frustrated to sit. Lewis, to her right, settled into the room’s couch; he shrugged in response to the new rule, and his head tilted briefly to the side. What was that, Vivi wondered? If nodding indicated agreement, and shaking the head meant disagreement, then maybe this head tilt was the middle option: “I don’t quite agree, but I can’t dispute it either.”

 

From the other side of the room, resting in a doggy bed, Mystery smirked. Well, he _continued_ to smirk. Vivi didn’t know if it was a conscious effort, or if he just had resting… lady-dog face.

 

She looked away from Lewis, and also away from Mystery as best as she could. “Son of a musket, I’m sorry,” she mumbled at the wall. “I made this big deal about you being here privately, and now _he’s_ here too.”

 

“Might I repeat that I _live_ here.” Mystery rolled his eyes. “What would you have done, tie me outside?”

 

Vivi grunted. “Keep bringing the sass, mister—see what happens.”

 

“Oh, please. I’m the superior life form here. I’d be the one putting _you_ outside to think about what you did. But if it makes you feel better, I’m not—” he interrupted himself with a big yawn, stretching out and turning over to find a more comfortable position. “Oh, that’s better. I’m not actually interested in your date, I’m just here—”

 

“Not a date—”

 

“—call it what you like, Vivi—I’m just here to make sure no one does anything stupid.” Mystery flicked a glance at Lewis. “Just pretend I’m not here, and have fun, you crazy kids. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he said, winking at Vivi.

 

“Sure thing, _Dad_.” Vivi felt her eye twitch. She closed her eyes. _One, two, three, four…._

 

She took a deep breath, reopened her eyes, and focused on Lewis. “So,” she said, and crossed the room to squeeze her keister onto the couch, in the scant space that Lewis did not occupy. He felt warm beside her. “Are you ready for some guitar teaching?”

 

“Hm.” Lewis pulled out his violin. “What do you know already?”

 

“Well, I wanted this meeting to be fun as well as instructive, so I got some of the boring stuff out of the way already. I learned what the different guitar parts are, I learned how to tune it—” she pulled gently along the strings, strumming each one in turn and playing their notes: Lewis nodded in approval “—and I can do a scale.”

 

As scales went, it was a disjointed, halting thing. Squinting in concentration, she took two or three seconds between some notes—then jumped between other pairs in a moment. But when she’d traversed up, and then down, an entire octave without a single mistaken note, she had to beam with pride.

 

And then she had to stop, when she looked up and saw Mystery wincing with his paws over his ears. “What?” she blurted.

 

“ _Nailed_ it,” he mumbled, wincing—he _had_ to be exaggerating, the little son-of-his-mom. “Now can you do something about the _rhythm_?”

 

Vivi groaned, and turned away, leaning her head to Lewis before motioning toward the bedroom. “Look,” Mystery continued, as she walked into her bedroom and Lewis followed. “It’s not my fault that I have such a keenly developed sense of musical theory and timing, which your playing so _rudely_ offended—”

 

Vivi shut the door, trying not to slam it. “ _Jackass_ ,” she whispered.

 

“He does have a point.”

 

Vivi glared at Lewis, who shrugged and held up one hand. “A _small_ point,” he explained, with his thumb and middle finger infinitesimally close together, almost touching. “About as small as… hm.”

 

“As an actual, mathematical point?” Vivi slammed her butt onto the bed. “As in, no volume at all? As in, he has no _point_ at all. I played all of those notes _perfectly_ , thank you very much.”

 

Lewis hummed, and hemmed and hawed, as he pulled up Vivi’s desk chair from by her computer and made to sit in it—but then seemed to think better of it, standing up straighter again. “You did use to have a stronger sense of rhythm, though. Before… well.” He sat down on the adjacent corner of the bed, which sank heavily toward the floor, and laid his violin on the desk.

 

“Hence, this visit.” Vivi strummed out a few F chords—slowly, so that no one could complain about her rhythm—and tried to control her scowl. “Whatever. I’m not really here to play chords or scales. I wanna play a song!”

 

“That does sound more fun.” Something about Lewis’s voice traced a smile onto his features, even if his mouth only moved a little. “Any suggestions?”

 

“Well, I already know an entire scale and how to play chords, soooo….” Vivi grinned cheekily, as if storing acorns. “I was thinking, Classical Gas—”

 

“ _No_.”

 

“—would be a terrible idea. Gotcha!” She giggled. “And that’s why you shouldn’t interrupt. Honestly, though, what are some good songs for beginners?”

 

“ _Four minutes and thirty three seconds_ ,” Mystery called from the other room. “On repeat, please.”

 

Oh, _good_. Now, at the age of twenty-four, Vivi had a snarky overbearing parent, and it was her _dog_. “Play it yourself!” she yelled, pounding on the door a couple of times. “ _Anyway_ ,” she said, returning her gaze to Lewis and socketing a smile onto her face.

 

Lewis, for his part, was leaning over her laptop, sparing her swivel chair. “May I?” he asked, and Vivi nodded, leaning forward to unlock it—but Lewis typed in a password, and her desktop appeared. “Good to know I can use _keyboards_ , at least,” he grumbled, pulling up a web browser.

 

Vivi stared. Eternal, undying love—or whatever—was one thing, but she’d given him her password? _Hare Krishna and the Sorcerer’s Stone!_ she swore internally, trying to think of a new one.  
  


Lewis hummed with indecision as he typed and deleted a few likely search strings—“beginner guitar song”, “guitar tutorial beginner”, “basic guitar chords”—before sitting up straighter, all of a sudden. “Here’s one I’m fond of,” he said, typing in a less generic search string: “coldplay the scientist tutorial”.

 

“It’s not a guitar song originally, but it sounds nice on one. Oh, but don’t tell Arthur,” Lewis mentioned as an aside, glancing Vivi’s way as he opened the video. “I don’t need a spat regarding my musical infidelity and unrefined tastes.”

 

“I don’t think he’d insect you about stuff like that.”

 

Lewis just stared at her: was he failing to parse 'insect’ as 'bug’? But a realization approached Vivi like an oncoming train: distant at first, but before too long, blaring and far too close. “Oh, come on.” She pouted with all her might, sinking forward into a huffy leaning pose. “I’m only supposed to have forgotten stuff about _you_!”

 

“Did that _only_ come up when we were all together?” Lewis scratched his chin. “Hum.”

 

The music tutorial played uninterrupted in the background, as some bearded man spoke in a curiously high-pitched voice about the particular chords involved. Funny, how there could be an awkward silence even with so much background noise.

 

“Turn it off!”

 

In a way, it was almost a relief when Mystery barged through the door and leapt onto the desk. Almost but not quite, because, well, Mystery.

 

“What in dangnation are you doing?” Vivi managed, as he struck the laptop’s touchpad repeatedly until he hit the left mouse button, pausing the video. She winced at the sound of claws on plastic. “Hey, don’t scratch my laptop, that’s expensive!”

 

“You’re welcome,” Mystery said, an intense look in his eyes. “That wasn’t just any video, it was a mind virus.”

 

Lewis glanced at the friendly-looking bearded man on the screen, then stared at Mystery, head tilted incrementally to the side. It would have been redundant, Vivi imagined, to say something like “A what?”, “What’s a mind virus?”, or “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard all week.”

 

Mystery growled at him, perhaps hearing the unsaid jibes. “A mind virus! Encoded in online data. It’s inserting instructions into your brain, that you’ll carry out later!”

 

“Mystery.” Vivi squinted. “You just described a _tutorial_.”

 

“Don’t be snarky about it—I mean subliminally! I heard him trail off mid-sentence as it devoured his brain!”

 

Lewis sighed. “I finished my sentence,” he said, standing up fully. “And then I stopped talking for a while, because that’s how conversations work.” His head brushed the ceiling, and his hair might have been stirring—Vivi certainly hoped not, for the sake of having a roof over her head. “Now,” Lewis said, “get out.”

 

Mystery grunted, and hopped down to the rolling chair. He leaned forward and grew just enough for illusory tails to appear behind himself. They sprouted forward, jacking into every kind of port the laptop had: HDMI, USB, even the headphone input. Vivi watched, eyebrows raised, as the video returned to the start, then played at incredible speed. Mystery’s eyes locked wide-open.

 

Before a minute had passed, the twelve-minute video was done. Mystery sighed, his voice coming out at a deeper pitch in his larger form. “All right. False alarm. But you _would_ have been very grateful, had there been a subliminal message.”

 

With jerky movements, his tails pulled out of the holes where they’d been implanted. “At least take my laptop out to dinner first,” Vivi muttered.

 

“Vivi, it’s a laptop. It consumes electricity, not food. Don’t be ridiculous.” Mystery stared at her.

 

Vivi stared back. There wasn’t really any response to make.

 

“Ah. An awkward silence.” Lewis loomed further over Mystery. “Now you know. Should I repeat myself, or will you _get out_?”

 

“Fine,” Mystery groaned. “I’ll get out of your hair… but not the room.” He retreated to the back corner, near the head of the bed. “I know it’s hard, but just keep ignoring me.”

 

As Lewis restarted the video, Vivi counted in her head until her hand relaxed from its claw-like shape. She watched in relative silence with Lewis for a couple minutes, as the man on the screen played a snippet of the song.

 

“Doesn’t seem hard,” Lewis said, picking up the violin. “Basic chords are D minor, B-flat major, F major….” He sawed them out on his violin in quick succession. “And then this one’s a little tricky, but not much. It’s called a Fadd9. Or maybe an F-add-9,” he amended, pronouncing the second one as 'eff-add-nine’ instead of 'fad-nine’. “I don’t… know how it’s pronounced, I’ve only ever seen it written.”

 

He drew another chord, one which sounded sort of… harmoniously dissonant, Vivi decided. “Let’s see if I was right,” Lewis continued.

 

The first thing the video described was the placement of the _capo_ —a sort of guitar clamp to change the pitch of the notes, which Vivi wasn’t sure if she owned. _Drat_. “Hm,” Lewis said, as the capo went on the fifth fret. “That changes the absolute but not the _relative_ pitches of what you play…. A minor, F major, C major and then Cadd9, or cee-add-nine. Whichever.”

 

Lo and behold, as the video went on, the bearded fellow named each chord in turn—except the last, which he just described as 'C but with a D on top, like so’. Lewis grunted. “I was hoping to learn to pronounce it.”

 

“You know a lot about this music theory stuff,” Vivi said, turning his way. “But it sounds like you didn’t learn it out loud?”

 

Lewis looked her way—then stopped himself, turned back to the video, and paused it. _Then_ he returned his gaze to meet hers. “Mom had this violin, and a bunch of leftover music theory books. She used to play back when she was younger, but with a restaurant and one-two-three-four kids, she didn’t have much time to keep it up. It was actually one of the first things I saw the first time I got to the Peppers’ house.” He laughed gently. “But I must have told you this story a hundred times.”

 

Vivi rolled her eyes, and after a moment of realization, Lewis jolted in his seat. “Oh, of course. Well, I didn’t have much time either, too much catch-up for missed years of school—and then the restaurant, before long. But I wanted to learn to play, even if I couldn’t attend one-on-one lessons. So I devoured those books, got more from the library, listened to classical CDs. Anything.” He smiled. “But I’m rambling. You’ve got a song to learn.”

 

“No, keep going, it’s interesting rambling! Actually, wait,” Vivi said, frowning in consternation, “if it’s 'interesting’, can it still be called 'rambling’? Or is that an oxymoron?”

 

“You invite me over for a guitar lesson, so you can hear me ramble about my mom’s old music books.” Lewis lifted an eyebrow. “Almost as if the guitar lesson still isn’t the point.”

 

“Ah, you’ve seen through my charade. Yes, I admit it, I’m tricking you all into social situations so that I can learn more about the members of my team. How devious of me.” Vivi smirked, and punched Lewis in the arm. “And besides, it’s totally relevant. Similar instruments, remember?”

 

“I remember. All right.” Lewis sighed. “But that’s actually where the story ends. Sorry to disappoint.”

 

“Ugh, fine. Lesson it is.” Vivi propped the guitar up on her lap, made to strum, then stopped herself. “Ah, shoot. Do I have a capo?”

 

She looked up at the ceiling, trying to think of whether or not she’d seen such a thing in her house, but then Lewis’s hand moved in her peripheral vision. She looked back down to see his index finger pressing down on the fifth fret. “You have me,” he said.

 

She smiled back, then positioned her hand for the A minor chord—the one that would become D minor with the improvised capo. Fingers went _here_ and _here_ , and—she strummed.

 

The notes flew out exactly as she was hoping for, and matching the video. She strummed eight times— _one_ and _two_ and _three_ and _four_ and—then paused to reposition her fingers for the Bb major, or rather the F major chord.

 

Another eight strums. Another pause to move her left fingers around for the tonic chord, and then another eight strums. The video had said she just needed to pick up her middle finger to switch chords on this one, so without pausing she did so after the eighth chord and kept going.

 

A single laugh escaped her, and she kept going, emboldened enough not to pause. D minor, eight strums—Bb major, eight strums—F major, sixteen strums but with lifting the middle finger on the ninth.

 

And she was into the first verse. “Come up to meet—” she said, and her playing immediately went to heck in a hamper. The jarring, discordant notes stopped her cold.

 

“Don’t do that,” Lewis said, gently and without admonishing. “Singing while playing is tough for beginners. It’s like trying to control a couple of new, extra limbs.”

 

“Wow,” drawled Mystery’s voice from behind them. “That sounds _so hard_.” Vivi glanced his way to see him with one of his tails curled far forward, scratching his nose.

 

With obvious care, Lewis removed his hand from the guitar, then clenched it into a crushing fist. It shook with the strain for several seconds; then Lewis relaxed it and returned it to the fifth fret. “Start from the top. I’ll keep time. One, two,” he counted off at a slow, steady pace, “three, four—”

 

Vivi restarted, and Lewis’s tapping foot provided a steady, thudding metronome. Eight strums in D minor, eight in Bb major, eight in F major, another eight in Fadd9, and then repeat—

 

_Come up to meet you, tell you I’m sorry,_

_You don’t know how lovely you are…._

 

Vivi vaguely heard the words in her head, even as she focused on the pattern of her fingers. She must have heard this song before.

 

_I had to find you, tell you I need you,_

_Tell you I set you apart…._

 

There came a humming—outside her head, not inside. Was that Lewis?

 

_Tell me your secrets, and ask me your questions,_

“ _Oh, let’s go back to the start…._ ”

 

And was Lewis _singing_? A bulb of jealousy blossomed, the idea that Lewis got to sing and not her—except that wasn’t Lewis’s voice.

 

_“Running in circles, coming up tails,_

_Heads on a science—_ ”

 

The chord shattered like dropped china as she whipped her head around, and at that moment Mystery stopped singing. He was staring into the wall, apparently not by design. “Wrong,” he murmured, with the same quiet volume he’d been using. “Gotta focus, lift your middle finger off the chord.”

 

She glared at him, strumming halted. _I’ll show you lifting my middle finger!_

 

In time, he looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “What? I absorbed the whole video, remember? Now after this, there’s the chorus, you’ll have to stay in Bb major for sixteen—”

 

Lewis released the guitar, stood up, and was in front of Mystery in two strides. “You know, all things considered,” Lewis said, “I’ve kept quite calm.” His tone agreed; he seemed to be musing out loud.

 

Then he grabbed Mystery by the scruff of the neck, lifting him like an empty plastic bag. “That will soon change _dramatically_ ,” Lewis hissed, as the flesh vanished from his face, leaving the skull to stare Mystery down. “ _Stop ruining this._ ”

 

Mystery flinched, then snorted. “How _terrifying._ ” His grin glinted, and he seemed no more rattled than he had a moment before, coiled up and snoozing. “Pardon me, to be sure, but where I come from we like to do things _correctly_. Especially music.”

 

Vivi blinked. “Hold on. Where _you_ come from?”

 

Lewis growled, and his grip tightened: Mystery might have been on the cusp of opening his mouth, but instead his grin now seemed more like gritting his teeth. Vivi stared at his muzzle and remembered another muzzle, like that one but shorter. Howling along to some tune playing in the car.

 

Faking it, of course. Because he’d been lying about literally everything, including being a dog. So clearly he’d faked that too. Right?

 

“Lewis!” she called out, as he wound his arm back in preparation to toss Mystery out. “Put him down!”

 

He glanced back at her, arm still cocked. “ _Why?_ ”

 

“Because—” Vivi couldn’t very well say the _real_ reason why. Not with Mystery in hearing range. So she’d have to find something else, something convincing…. “Because… animal abuse is wrong!”

 

Aw, _stag_ , that wasn’t it. The two of them were briefly united in squinting at her. “Because, well, don’t sink to his level!” she managed. “You’ve been trying to control your anger—don’t let him rile you up, okay? Just… count the beat with me. One, two—”

 

“Three, four.” Somehow, even with no lower jaw, Lewis’s voice seemed to be coming out through gritted teeth. “One, two… all right.”

 

He dropped Mystery without ceremony. The kitsune landed with (inappropriately, for his supposed species) catlike grace.

 

Lewis stalked over to the foot of the bed and sat down, not bothering to account for his weight. Vivi winced, hoping she hadn’t heard a _crack_. “Why,” Lewis muttered, “are you—one, two, three, four—why are you tolerating this?”

 

“Look, I know he’s being a little turd, but—just trust me on this, okay? I’ve got an idea.”

 

“What idea?”

 

“I really can’t explain it—he can probably hear me.”

 

“Yup,” Mystery piped in. “Don’t think too loud, either. What are you talking about, anyway?”

 

Lewis trembled, and Vivi rested a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, I’ve still got some chords to learn, right? How does the chorus go?”

 

After a few seconds, Lewis heaved a sigh. “You’re right. He just wants attention.”

 

Out of the corner of her eye, Vivi saw Mystery blinking. No snappy comeback this time.

 

“Anyway,” Lewis said, “if I’m right, the next chords are….”

 

* * *

 

It had been fifteen minutes—she had kept track, for purposes of bragging rights—and now Vivi was confident in her ability to play the song through. Or at least the chords.

 

It was time for phase two.

 

“Give me a beat?” she said to Lewis, who still held the fifth fret. He nodded, smiling more easily than before. Mystery hadn’t had any further lip to offer after Lewis’s shutdown, which probably explained it.

 

Lewis tapped his foot in time. “One,” he said for two beats, “two—”

 

They counted together: “One, two, three, four!”

 

Strum. She’d done it so many times in the past fifteen minutes that she barely knew where her left hand was, and still the notes seemed to be coming out correctly. Her fingers changed position after eight strums, and then again, and again. It was second nature.

 

“You’re a natural,” Lewis said.

 

“Pun intended?”

 

Suddenly, speaking threw her whole body back into mind, and she felt like she had a hundred feet to keep track of. Her hand spasmed in panic, but she remembered: F major next, and then Fadd9—lift that middle finger.

 

“What pun?” Lewis asked.

 

Vivi ignored this, and not just for fear of further speech. The first verse was starting, and she wanted to listen. Would phase two of the plan work.

 

_Come up to meet you, tell you I’m sorry,_

_You don’t know how lovely you are…._

 

No, he wasn’t singing yet, but if she’d read him right, he wouldn’t be able to help himself. Faintly, she thought she heard humming.

 

_I had to find you, tell you I need you,_

 

The humming evolved to a murmur—

 

_“Tell you I set you apart….”_

 

—and the murmur evolved to a gentle croon.

 

“ _Tell me your secrets, and ask me your questions,_

 _Oh, let’s go back to the start…._ ”

 

Lewis’s eyes widened with what was probably realization. Vivi spared him a wink, which was about all she dared manage: she had to keep the beat.

 

_“Running in circles, coming up tails,_

_Heads on a science apart…._ ”

 

Otherwise, what sort of backup guitarist would she be?

 

_“Nobody said it was easy!_

_It’s such a shame for us to part…_

_Nobody said it was easy!_

_No one ever said it would be this hard—”_

 

Vivi scooted her butt around on the bed, rotating bit by bit until she could see Mystery in something other than her peripheral vision. She was just in time for the end of the chorus.

 

_“Oh, take me back to the start.”_

 

Mystery lay in the corner, looking slightly skyward as if experiencing revelation. There was something strange about his face, and she couldn’t figure it out with the limited brainpower she had at the moment. F major for eight, Bb major for eight, and then F major for another sixteen—then back to the first pattern.

 

_“I was just guessing at numbers and figures,_

_Pulling the puzzles apart…_

_Questions of science, science and progress,_

_Do not speak as loud as my heart….”_

Mystery’s voice suffused the room like palpable warmth, and quite frankly, it was beautiful. Maybe even beautiful enough that Vivi wouldn’t mind paying him the compliment—especially since, even with those incredible ears, he didn’t seem to hear his own singing.

 

And it wasn’t just that he hit the notes.

 

_“Tell me you love me, come back and haunt me,_

_Oh, and I rush to the start…”_

 

It was, basically, because he sounded like he gave a damn. No begrudging half-effort, no snark, no self-righteous anger. And no guarding.

 

_“Running in circles, chasing our tails,  
Coming back as we are….”_

Finally, Vivi realized what was so strange about his face, and she could have laughed—but she had a chorus to play.

 

_“Nobody said it was easy!”_

 

It was the simplest thing in the world. He was _relaxed_.

 

_“It’s such a shame for us to part…”_

 

The way he had looked when he was playing the role of a happy little dog. And of course he’d been faking it, she’d concluded, because now his features seemed taut and tense all the time, whether smirking or growling—

 _  
“Nobody said it was easy!_ ”

 

No. Not even close. The tension was the put-on—this was real.

_  
“No one ever said it would be this hard—”_

 

He took a breath, and he looked like the kitsune who’d admitted to caring about their little group, not so many days prior.

 

He looked like her dog, from too many days ago.

 

“ _Oh, take me back to the start._ ”

 

No more words were left: just the outro, with some wordless _'ooh’_ s to finish it out. Mystery howled them out with the same quiet passion he’d brought to the rest of the song, and they echoed in Vivi’s head long after his mouth finally closed.

 

It was done. Vivi released the guitar, shook out her achey hands, and glanced up to see that Lewis, too, had been staring at Mystery the whole time.

 

The subject in question blinked a few times, then glanced toward them. At once he noticed the twin gazes pinning him, and he drew himself more upright, closer to the wall. A hint of tension leaked into his face once more.

 

Vivi spoke quickly. “That—that was _really good_.”

 

Mystery’s head cocked to the side, like a dog trying to interpret a sound. Finally, he said, “Um… thanks. It wasn’t terrible, I suppose.”

 

“No, really,” Lewis said, glancing at Vivi. “Do you have training of some sort?” Vivi gave him a wink, which she hoped Mystery missed.

 

“Not _as such_ … where I, um…. where I came from, there was always a lot of music. Not like your music—” he gave out a short, harsh laugh “—you probably couldn’t appreciate it, but it was good. Good like that.”

 

“Where you came from?” Vivi blurted.

 

“Where I—”

 

He blinked, and Vivi cursed herself internally with a few choice words from the NC-17 shelf. “I see what this is,” he said, smirking. The tension was back: she’d pushed too hard. “You think you can just pry me open with a pretty tune, and I’ll spill my guts about my tragic childhood and emotional neuroses, is that it?”

 

“Mystery—” she began.

 

He was sitting up straight now, with none of that floppy relaxation in his body. “It’s none of your business. Nice try, but I’m afraid I’ve got a brand to live up to—it’s in the name, remember? Now, if you’d named me 'Tedious Backstory Exposition’, we might have a different situation, but no.”

 

“I wasn’t going to ask about your neuroses—”

 

“Good, because it’s none of your business!”

 

His teeth were bared. Vivi couldn’t help but think, in a drably amused way, that they were the only part of him to be so.

 

“This is enough,” Lewis said, abruptly standing. He offered a hand to her. “Vivi, would you mind if we went somewhere else?”

 

Vivi squeezed shut her eyes for a few moments, then sighed and stood, pulling herself up with his hand. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

 

“A- _hem—_ isn’t there someone you forgot to ask?” Mystery stood on all four legs now. “You’ll have to tell me where this new, _romantic_ location is.”

 

Lewis folded his arms. “You’re not coming. Clearly.”

 

“And you think you can stop me?” Mystery laughed once, and loudly. “I found you in another reality. I can run as fast as you can _drive_. No matter how fast you go, no matter what barrier you erect—there is nowhere, land or sea, where I can’t pursue you.”

 

Lewis just smiled.

 

* * *

 

“Now, this is a C7. Mind if I—”

 

Vivi nodded. Lewis leaned over the back of her thick, oaken chair, and let her left hand off the frets for a moment, so that Lewis could finger it. She paid close attention to where his fingertips rested, and then strummed once, producing a sound that was less like the Gadd9, more… “Jazzy,” she mused aloud.

 

“It _is_ used often in jazz.” Lewis waited until she’d placed her fingers by his, then lifted his hand and walked back around her chair. From the end-table next to his much larger chair, he picked up his violin and bow, then sawed out a few notes in an arpeggiated sort of C7, until they resolved to a C major by way of F major and F minor. “'Sweet Home Chicago’,” he explained, with another self-satisfied smile like the one he’d turned on Mystery about twenty minutes before. “Who says I don’t appreciate the classics?”

 

“Who _does_ say that?” Vivi asked.

 

Lewis paused, stock still. “Hm… long story.”

 

A knocking sound drew their attention, and they looked to the room’s large, glass windows. A single Deadbeat was bonking its head against the window, its stubby arms occupied by a pile of books.

 

“The music theory!” Vivi said, beaming as Lewis opened a window to let the Deadbeat—and a fair amount of rushing wind—inside. “Good job, little guy.”

 

The Deadbeat dropped the books in a heap on the end-table, then zipped under Vivi’s outstretched hand for scritches. Its need satisfied, it darted into a corner and curled up, instantly snoozing.

 

“These are….” Lewis picked up the heap of books and frowned. “About half of the theory books I asked for. Also, several cookbooks—Mom’s going to want these back—and one Ikea manual.” He sighed. “ _Deadbeats_.”

 

“Hey, you can’t be mad at a little buddy like that, can you? Come on.”

 

He smiled back at her, for a moment; then he looked at her. Maybe even through her. Vivi couldn’t help feeling on edge, or perhaps on trial, as he sat down without breaking eye contact.

 

“I saw what you were doing with Mystery,” he said. “It almost worked.”

 

Vivi groaned. At least _he_ wasn’t judging, or rather he was judging in her favor. “ _Almost_ is the marketer’s word for _didn’t_. Sorry to mess up our date for that.”

 

“I—er, I thought it wasn’t a date?” He leaned forward, and his eye-lights brightened a degree.

 

“It’s kind of a date.”

 

Vivi stared out the windows. Lewis had created this room of the mansion especially to order—exactly cozy enough for two people and zero dog-things. A row of windows lined the opposite wall, revealing the kind of view that could sell for millions in the big city. All crystal clear and simple.

 

She groaned. “I just don’t _get_ him! What’s to gain from pulling back, huh? What’s so bad about—is it so wrong to want to _know_ things about your team?” She slumped forward. “Being team leader _sucks_ sometimes.”

 

“Hey.” Lewis leaned forward, smiling. “Nobody said it was easy.”

 

She shook her head, looking down at her feet. “No one ever said it would be _this_ hard.”

 

“I told you already, you don’t get to sing—it’ll ruin your playing.”

 

All right, _fine—_ she gave in, and chuckled. “All right, let’s keep going. What was that thing you mentioned, 'Sweet Home Chicago'—I wonder if I can find a video?”

 

She pulled out her phone, but after a second of squinting, she put it away and chuckled. “Oh, of course. Shame—there’s no WiFi up here.”

 

* * *

 

 _“Lewis!_ This isn’t funny!”

 

Stupid, clever humans.

 

Mystery’s eyes fixated on a black point, high in the air. He tensed his haunches, then took off like a shot across Vivi’s backyard, accelerating quickly. One leap landed him on the peaked roof: he gained what velocity he could running up the shingles, then jumped up with all of his might—

 

And got nowhere close to the single room of Lewis’s mansion, floating hundreds of feet directly above Vivi’s condo.

 

With a heavy, even _clumsy_ landing, Mystery returned to earth, kicking up a plume of dust. “ _Get down here!_ ” he yelled, before realizing he’d landed in the _front_ yard: he quickly shrank back to his doggy disguise and padded around the back.

 

_Stupid Lewis with his ill-defined powers. Stupid Vivi with her prying. Stupid Coldplay with their… cold playing. Why did I ever fall for that?_

 

He groaned and looked skyward, but not at Lewis’s room.

 

 _And why_ her _? Of all people, why was I thinking of her?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major props to [HeCallsMeHisChild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hecallsmehischild/pseuds/Hecallsmehischild), without whose help this chapter wouldn’t be out for quite some time. (Go read her fanfiction, it’s good!)


	21. Interlude IV: Voodoo Child

“Let me get this straight,” Lance said, after a long pause.

 

Arthur glanced up at him from his supine position on the creeper, his legs under the hood of Lance’s tow truck. “Take your time,” he said. “And I, um, don’t mean that in a condescending way, I just mean that it is honestly a lot to take in, so—”

 

“Stop being a dingus, Art. You didn’t sound condescending.”

 

Arthur grunted and pulled himself entirely underneath. That was how he’d related his long, crazy story, once Lance had finally managed to cajole him into relaying it. He’d been under Lance’s truck, devoutly fixing the car, and explaining what had happened like it was some kind of idle gossip about celebrities, or hair, or something.

 

“So, Lew’s a ghost, tried to kill you because he thought you killed him, but now he knows about that demon thing that got in your arm, so he doesn’t try to kill you— _as often_. Vivi can remember Lew except she still doesn’t. And her dog can talk. And isn’t a dog.”

 

“That’s the essentials, yeah.”

 

It wasn’t even like when Arthur had told him about the cave. He’d been sobbing then, still lying on the hospital bed, curling up instinctively and without enough arms to hold himself.

 

Gritting his back teeth, Lance stepped forward and leaned on the truck. “Art?” he asked. “Are you okay?”

 

“Yeah. Why?”

 

Offhand. Disinterested.

 

“ _Why?_  What the—God’s name—Christ, are you kidding?” After some aggressive yanks at his mustache, Lance crouched down, looking Arthur in the tops of his eyes. “You didn’t exactly describe a trip to the _spa_  there, kiddo!”

 

“Oh, I see what you mean. It’s just….” Arthur glanced at him. “Everyone made it out fine. So I’m fine.” His gaze returned to the car above him.

 

“For real?” Lance gestured futilely, since Arthur wasn’t looking at that moment. “How about your prosthetic? It’s looking beat-up. Sounds like it’s taken some abuse the past forty-eight hours.”

 

He waited, but Arthur seemed content to let the silence draw out. Eventually, Lance continued, “Don’t you wanna take it into, y'know, the shop? Before it breaks on you?”

 

“It can take more abuse. I built it pretty strong.”

 

Arthur’s mouth moved, and the rest of his body kept working, and they might as well have belonged to two different people. The answer was dispassionate—no, automatic. He’d been stockpiling answers like this.

 

“What about your van? That’s still not fixed, and it’s  _your_  car.” Lance winced as he glanced once more at Arthur’s van, its insides still blackened and melted. “How are you gonna go pick up that Surf’s Up Pizza you like? You know they ain’t delivering any time soon, no matter how well you tip ‘em.”

 

“Eh. You know it’s not good for me.”

 

“Art, when you get to my age, you’re gonna find out that sometimes terrible pizza is the  _best_  thing for you.” Lance blinked a few imes as an unhappy hypothesis occurred to him. “Besides, your friend’s not gonna be able to go on cases without a working vehicle, either.”

 

Arthur didn’t respond immediately, and when he did, the response didn’t sound as rehearsed. “That’s a good point, actually. I didn’t think of that.”

 

Lance sighed.  _Everyone made it out fine._  It seemed Arthur hadn’t been counting one crucial person among 'everyone’.

 

Scratching his hair, Lance trudged back not to his office, but to the second floor stairs leading to where he lived, above the shop. Sure, the oil smells could be bad sometimes, but after a while they just started smelling like home.

 

It wasn’t a large home—just a hallway with rooms hanging off like grapes. Lance’s room was at the end, past the living room, kitchen/dining room, bathroom… Art’s old room.

 

The door was closed, and his hand rose to the knob for a second—but then he let it fall. It hadn’t really changed much since the last time he saw it, now that Arthur didn’t live here anymore. Lance had forced him to find his own place once he’d reached eighteen and had, frankly, outgrown the room.

 

Pushing forward, he opened his own door, revealing a room even smaller than Arthur’s: no one could accuse  _him_  of outgrowing the space. He crossed to the wardrobe and opened it. Then, he opened the second wardrobe within.

 

Lance stared at what hung behind the false wall; he squinted, clenched his jaw, and sighed; and then he closed the wall back up, climbed onto his bed, and lay there. He knew how this worked: the decision wasn’t made yet, but it was coming, bit by bit. And once he was fully sure—

 

He closed his eyes, but still felt the deja vu. “It’s gonna be like last time, huh?” he muttered.

 

* * *

 

“Heya there! How’s my least favorite sister doing?”

 

Niav rolled her eyes, looking down at Lance from her doorway. “Do we really need to do this? Every time, doing this?”

 

“Aw, you know you’re my favorite sister too.” Lance grinned up at Niav Kingsman, his only sister. “Now get down here so I can noogie ya.”

 

She did no such thing, but did step aside to allow him entry. “You’re a bit overdressed,” she murmured with a little smile. “And what are you hiding back there?—and I use the word 'hiding’ loosely.”

 

Indeed, Lance wore not his usual torn-sleeved white shirt and jeans, but instead a suit and tie. It was a special day, after all, for a special person. “Now where’s the birthday boy?” he called out, holding a box half his own size behind his back.

 

Looking around, it wasn’t what he’d expected. Obviously he’d been there before, so he knew that the couch would be  _there_ , on the left, facing the TV—and then a staircase on the right, on the hallway to the main living room, dining room, and kitchen—but where were the decorations? The stack of presents? (Or maybe he was thinking of Christmas—who knew.)

 

“Arthur!” called another voice, from the kitchen: this had to be Wayne, Niav’s husband, making the cake. “Your uncle’s here!”

 

After maybe half a minute, Arthur finally came down the steps and around the corner. “Hi, Uncle Lance,” he said, a little smile on his face.

 

“Oh, don’t be so shy—” Lance dropped the box, letting it rattle on the floor, and rushed forward to grab Arthur in a bear hug. “Happy birthday, Arthur, and welcome to double digits!”

 

Arthur let out a little surprised cry as Lance picked him up, then a laugh that wasn’t quite as little. “You too, Uncle Lance—wait, I mean—”

 

“Ah, I know what you mean, it’s okay.” Lance released him, and looked up at his nephew.  _Up_ , he realized ruefully. “You’ve finally gotten taller than I have, huh? That’s pretty rude of you, y'know….”

 

“Oh? Sorry—”

 

“I’m  _messing_  with ya, you smarty pants! Grow all you want!” Lance reached up and ruffled the unruly shock of orange-yellow hair that mirrored his own so closely. He wouldn’t get too many more chances to ruffle like this, he knew, before the kid inevitably became a beanpole.

 

“So, what’d you guys get him?” Lance asked, grinning at his sister. “Come on, let’s compare gifts. I bet my uncle gift is better, whatcha think?”

 

Niav groaned and rolled her eyes. “Ugh,  _uncle_  gifts.”

 

“No, not  _that_  kind of—look, it doesn’t need batteries and it doesn’t make loud noise, okay? I’m not that much of a rascal.” Lance backed up enough to grab his gift, then trotted forward, presenting it to his nephew. “I’m not gonna be here all day, so you should open this now.”

 

Arthur took off the bow, carefully so that the paper didn’t rip as the adhesive came off. Then he untied the ribbons with similar caution.

 

“Jeez, did you raise him in a barn?” Lance whispered to Niav, as Arthur kept going. “Also, seriously, what’d you get him, while we’re waiting for an hour. I don’t wanna have gotten the same thing as you and made you look like a jackass. Where’s the present?”

 

“Oh, well, the thing about that is….” After a moment, Niav smiled. “Let’s just say it’s not a  _physical_  present. We’re taking him on a trip.”

 

“Good! No chance of overlap.” Lance winked, and then sniffed. “I smell… chocolate? I thought he didn’t like chocolate.”

 

“Kid’s gotta try new things, shortstuff.”

 

“Fair enough, I guess.”

 

They smiled at Arthur as, finally, he finished unwrapping the box without a single tear in the paper. “Oh, wow,” he said with a look of disbelief, looking at his gift. “What is this?”

 

“Well,” Lance said, stepping forward, “I’ve seen you always fiddling with spare parts when you’re over at my shop, trying to make stuff. You’re a smart kid, and I thought, what’s a good gift for smart kids who like making stuff? But then I realized you wouldn’t have anywhere to put a spare engine—” he laughed, because this joke was hilarious “—so here’s the next best thing!”

 

Lance drew a finger along the name on the box: “Bionicle! It’s like Legos except with joints and axles and motors and stuff, and you can make your own action figures, or vehicles, or whatever you want!” He pointed out a bunch of the examples on the box, and it seemed like Arthur’s eyes were literally shining.

 

“Ooh.” Wayne had come in from the kitchen with oven mitts. “Arthur, now make sure you don’t leave those out in the hallway where someone could step on them. Remember to be responsible.”

 

“Oh, okay,” Arthur said. The light in his eyes died away a bit.

 

“Shaddup, Wayne, you’re ruining his birthday.” Lance put an arm around Arthur, squeezing him close. “So, what do you wanna do while I’m here? Build those action figures? Watch TV? Try booze?”

 

“Lance!” Niav blurted out.

 

“Kidding! But seriously, don’t listen to these mopers—what do you wanna do, and we’ll do it! I’m the fun-uncle. The funcle.”

 

Arthur hesitated, then leaned in close. “Could we watch,” he whispered, and then hesitated some more, and finally managed to hiss out, “wrestling?”

 

Lance wiggled his eyebrows. “That’s pretty violent, kid. Sure you’re up for it?”

 

Arthur blinked, then shied away. “No, you’re right, I shouldn't—”

 

“I’m  _kidding_ , ya big goof! Come on, let’s watch some wrestling! Where’s the dang remote around here?”

 

“Lance,” Niav whined again, but Lance ignored her and grabbed the remote from the coffee table. In about half a minute, he found the wrestling channel, and broke into a grin when he saw who was on it.

 

“Sit down, kid!” he said, and Arthur did with barely restrained eagerness, and heavy rock and roll blasted out from the TV. “This is one of the greatest wrestling legends of all time you’re looking at: Hulk Hogan! I’m  _so_  glad they got him back.”

 

“ _I didn’t mean to take up your sweet time_ ,” drawled the barely-tonal voice of Jimi Hendrix as Hogan postured in front of a roaring crowd. “ _I’ll give it right back to ya one of these days._ ”

 

“He always wins, isn’t that the great thing?” Lance said excitedly as Hogan approached his challenger. “No matter how tight a jam he’s in, he always comes out ahead! And the crowd loves him!”

 

“Everyone loves him!” Arthur replied.

 

“Damn right they do!”

 

* * *

 

Lance walked up to the door and knocked three times, his other arm behind his back. After several seconds, it opened to reveal Wayne behind it. He looked forward, then looked down and started. “Oh, Lance! Didn’t see you there. How have you been?”

 

“Pretty well,” Lance said. “Where’s Art?”

 

Wayne frowned. “Why do you ask?”

 

“Well, I haven’t even seen the kid since his birthday, it’s been a couple months, and I was thinking I’d check in on how he’s enjoying his uncle gift—”

 

Wayne flinched. Lance squinted, but continued on. “Anyway, I was also thinking, since he liked watching the wrestling so much… ta-dah!” With a flourish he revealed the tickets he’d had behind his back. “Two seats, next Saturday. Not exactly ringside, I don’t have that kinda cash, but….”

 

Oh, now Wayne was definitely wincing. Lance shut up for a few seconds, and then, when Wayne wasn’t talking, he said, “What’s up with Art?”

 

“Well, the thing is… he’s grounded.”

 

“Grounded?” Lance’s eyebrows flew up his face. “He’s a good kid! What’d he get grounded for?”

 

“Leaving a mess everywhere. It’s all month, and that’s the same time as your tickets… sorry you wasted the money.”

 

“Oh. Can I at least chat with—”

 

Lance tried to step forward, but Wayne held out an arm. It was actually higher than Lance’s head, and he could have squeezed under it, but he stopped anyway. “Sorry,” Wayne said, “but he’s grounded.”

 

Lance made a “tch” noise. “You guys are too hard on him, y'know that?”

 

Wayne sighed. “It’s part of raising a responsible kid. You’d know that if you were a parent.”

 

“Maybe, maybe…. I hope he at least had fun on his birthday trip.”

 

The look on Wayne’s face suggested that Lance had suddenly broken into Klingon, or something. “The birthday trip?” Lance added, prodding. “The one that he got for his birthday from you guys rather than, like, a computer game or something?”

 

“Huh? Oh, yeah, that. He had a blast. See you later.”

 

Without further ceremony, the door was closed in Lance’s face. He almost sputtered with indignation, but took a deep breath and turned around instead, and started walking off their front steps back to his pickup.  _I only see the kid some of the time, they have to live with him—maybe they know something I don’t?_

 

_But how bad a mess could one kid make, to get grounded?_

 

And then Lance was grounded, too, because lost as thought as he was, he didn’t notice he was walking straight into Wayne and Niav’s trash cans. He stumbled to the ground as the trash can fell over, vomiting its contents onto the grass.

 

Lance grunted in indignation and pushed himself up; then he started picking up stuff from the ground, and putting it back into the trash can. One big bag with tomato sauce, one filled with paper, one box of Bionicles—

 

Lance stopped and stared. Then he took the box, which had been taped shut, and ripped it open. It was bulging in places, which were revealed to be where various creations on the inside pressed against the cardboard.

 

He squinted: these were really creative designs. Arthur had clearly put a lot of time into them. Who had thrown them out?

 

* * *

 

It had been another six months, the next time Lance knocked on that door. This time he wasn’t alone.

 

Niav opened up, and first looked at the fellow next to Lance, and asked, “Who are you?” Then she noticed Lance, a bit further down, and her face broke into a smile. “Oh, hi, Lance!”

 

“Hi there! How’s my least favorite sister doing?” Lance smiled. Well, his teeth were visible, at least.

 

“Ugh, this again,” Niav groaned.

 

“And since you asked, might I introduce my buddy Paul Irmand? We’re drinking buddies after work.”

 

Paul nodded respectfully. “Good to meet you, Mrs. Kingsman. Might we come in?”

 

“What are you, a PI?” Niav asked it, and then giggled. “You know, because your initials….”

 

“Well, I will admit I’m dressed for the part,” Paul said, glancing down at his dress shirt, tie, and slacks—and the briefcase in his hand. “So people do tend to assume that. And you know what?” He winked. “They’re right. P.I. the private eye.”

 

Niav laughed. “You’re not here to see Arthur, are you? He’s not back from school—”

 

“Nah, we’re not here to see Arthur, yet.” Lance pushed past her into the house, and sprawled on the couch. “Can you get Wayne? We’ve got a yarn to spin, we know you’ll both  _love_  it.”

 

 _String them along_ , he thought, feeling his shaking muscles and willing them to calm down. It was like he was filled with electricity, desperate for a chance to ground itself.

 

“Lance, is that your voice I hear?” said Wayne from the kitchen. He walked in wearing oven mitts. “There’s a quiche in the oven, but it won’t be ready for  _who is that?_ ” he blurted, pointing his whole mitted hand at Paul.

 

Paul inclined his head. “Paul Irmand, PI. Profession  _and_  initials. Your wife loved that joke. May I sit down?” He’d been respectfully standing next to one of the chairs. Once Wayne nodded, he took a seat.

 

“Anyway,” Wayne said, “what’s the visit for? It’s a bit out of the blue.”

 

“Well, I thought I could introduce some of my  _favorite people_  to each other! Just never got the chance because, well,  _work_.” Lance laughed and clapped Niav on the shoulder—she’d sat next to him on the sofa, with Wayne opposite the coffee table from Paul. “Not even  _my_  work so much as his! Do you know how many hours this guy puts in?”

 

“Hours and hours,” Paul answered, nodding solemnly. “This one case has been taking up a  _lot_  of my time, these past six months.”

 

“Right, right!” Lance said, waving his arm in vague recognition, as if he didn’t immediately know what Paul was talking about. “That, uh, that kid, right?”

 

“The kid.” Paul frowned. “Someone gave me a tip that said they thought a kid they knew was being abused. He wasn’t sure, and he said that in the best case scenario the child would be fine and he’d look like a fool. But he had to make sure. So he offered to pay full price for my services, or even more, but of course, I gave him a discount.”

 

“Ah, shouldn’t do that, Paul! It’s bad business!” Lance laughed again, a bit louder than necessary. “Anyway, tell em what happened.”

 

“What I did was, I set up a stakeout. Got some cameras going. All legal, though it’s a bit hard to make sure sometimes—you’ve got to know the law quite thoroughly as a private eye. And, lady and gentlemen, I’m sorry to announce,” Paul said, his voice growing solemn, “that there was bad stuff going on in that household. Things no kid should go through.”

 

Niav shivered. “Oh, we would never do that to our Arthur.”

 

“Who said anything about Arthur?” Lance felt his facial expression blurring the line between  _grin_  and  _grimace_.

 

“So what happened?” Wayne said, leaning forward. “Did you get the kid out?”

 

Paul shook his head. “Actually, that case is still ongoing. But I hope to get it resolved very soon. Would you like to see some of the photos?”

 

“Isn’t that illegal or something?” Niav asked with an uneasy frown. “I don’t think we should….”

 

“Oh, I  _insist_.” With utterly calm motions—Lance had always admired his friend’s cool head—Paul opened his briefcase, pulled out a folder, and opened it quite deliberately.  _Like Arthur with his present_ , Lance thought, and suppressed and uncalled-for laugh.

 

Finally, he pulled out the first photo. It was a very specific house.

 

Wayne stared at it for several seconds before comprehension started dawning in his eyes. “Wait a second. This is our house.”

 

Paul kept on pulling out pictures, taken surreptitiously through windows and open doors. A child with shockingly orange hair, sitting in his room for what seemed to be days at a time. That same child, crying in a corner of the living room, as Wayne taped up a box of his toys to throw out.

 

“And this one,” Paul said, pulling out the last photo, “is from when you two went on vacation and left him alone in the house over a long weekend.  Alone with no babysitter, and debatably enough food.”

 

He looked up at the two of them, as they stared motionless at the array of photographic evidence laid down on the coffee table. It was as if he’d been pulling out the head of Medusa, and they’d been turned to stone. “Did you know that it is illegal to leave a child alone for that long, and what the maximum prison sentence is?”

 

They didn’t answer, and just continued gaping. For the first time, Paul’s expression erred from one of respectful politeness—just a slight inclination of the eyebrows. “Did you even realize that what you were doing was wrong?”

 

Finally Niav found a voice. “But—but—are you kidding me!? This isn’t abuse, this is—this is parenting, you jackass!” She snatched up the photos, as if to steal them—as if there weren’t copies back at Paul’s office. “This is teaching him to be a responsible kid!”

 

Lance found his arm shaking. “Responsible,” he repeated. “You neglect your kid and you call it  _responsible_.” With difficulty, he took a deep breath. “Niav, you’re my sister, and I used to love you. So here’s my final act of brotherly consideration. We’ve made it easy for you.”

 

Paul withdrew another folder from his briefcase, this one labeled _Legal Documents_. “What we’ve brought,” Lance said, as Paul pulled out the documents in question, “are all the forms you need to sign to give up custody of Arthur to me. It’ll take you five minutes, and the kid you clearly don’t want is gonna be out of your life. You can get back to… cooking, or partying, or whatever the hell it is you do while you’re neglecting him.”

 

Lance took another deep breath. “That’s the easy way. The hard way is, we take this to the cops. We have a long court battle, which you’re gonna lose, and you go to prison for a good long time. You know how most prisoners aren’t fond of people who mess with kids?”

 

“You  _assholes!_ ” Niav stood up, her face enraged. “You think you can just walk into  _my house_  and take  _my kid?_ ”

 

She swung at Lance. This was a mistake.

 

Lance moved automatically, grabbing her arm and kicking her leg, slamming her down into the coffee table. “Give me another reason,” he hissed, pinning her back with his other arm, using leverage to keep her immobile even with his much lighter weight. “Give me another reason because Christ help me, I’ve been  _looking_  for one.”

 

Niav laughed without humor. “You think you’ll be any better a parent than we are, short stuff?” She struggled under his grip, but he held firm. “Think you’re any better at holding together a family after what happened with Vera, you midget hypocrite?”

 

Before Lance could react—or rather, before his body could, as Lance wasn’t sure any conscious thought would be involved—he felt Paul’s hand on his shoulder. “Don’t, Lance,” he said firmly. “What you’re doing here is self-defense. She attacked first, that’s fine. If you take it any further… don’t give her a leg to stand on in court. That’s all she wants.”

 

Niav spat into the documents her face was pressed against.

 

Lance let her go. “So, what do you say, least favorite sister? How do you want to do this?”

 

* * *

 

The forms were signed by three o'clock, at which point the door creaked open.

 

“I’m home,” Arthur called out at half-volume, and then he saw the four of them seated around the coffee table. His eyes widened. The kid wasn’t stupid, and the air here was so thick with tension you could crash a car into it. He knew something was wrong.

 

“Uncle Lance,” he mumbled. “What are you doing here? And who’s he?”

 

Paul smiled, and crouched down to Arthur’s eye level. “Paul Irmand. I’m a friend of Lance’s. Nice to meet you.” He put his hand out, which Arthur shook uncertainly.

 

“So,” Arthur said, “what are you doing… here?” He almost swallowed the last word.

 

Lance felt himself in a similar predicament, with his words stuck in his throat. Breaking the news to his… to  _Niav_ , that had been one thing. How to break this to someone he cared about?

 

Unfortunately, he took too long. “We were talking, your uncle and I,” Niav said sweetly, “and we decided that you should live with him now. Because you’re too much trouble around here.” Her sweetness was like one of those candies from urban legends about Halloween—a sweet with a razor blade hidden inside.

 

Arthur looked down, punctured. “Um… okay? Okay.”

 

Lance felt Paul’s hand on his shoulder again. He didn’t need the reminder.  _Provocation._  “Arthur,” he said, “go to your room and gather all your things. I’ll help you carry them out. Okay?”

 

Arthur nodded and walked, dumbly, to his room—like a robot, told to obey without really understanding the instruction. It had to be a lot to process.

 

Lance glared venom at his sister, who smiled back. “You’re not even trying to hurt  _him_  anymore, are you?” he spat. “You don’t even care  _that_  much about Art. You’re just using the child as some kind of voodoo doll, because you know  _I_  care.”

 

Niav winked. “Have fun with family life, short stuff.”

 

* * *

 

By the time Lance was done seething, they’d gathered all of Arthur’s things in a bunch of boxes Lance had brought, and he and Paul had hauled them to the bed of his pickup. Paul shook Arthur’s hand again before leaving in his own car, leaving Lance and Arthur together.

 

Not for the first time, Lance wished he was taller. It was harder to physically comfort someone who, well,  _dwarfed_  him, but he gave the tightest hug he could to Arthur anyway. “Uncle Lance,” Arthur asked, not hugging back. “What are you doing?”

 

“Arthur, listen to me,” he said. “You’re a genius. You’re better than  _both_  of those scumbags. And you are gonna have a  _great_  life.”

 

“Um… okay?” Arthur awkwardly patted him on the back.

 

“And one more thing,” he said, reaching up to his car door. “Because the last time I tried this, it got messed up, so….”

 

He yanked open his car door. Inside was the box of Bionicles that had been in the trash. “Happy birthday, Art.”

 

Arthur froze for a few seconds. Then he ran forward and grabbed the box, and tore open the cardboard, and pulled out all the things he’d created. Clutching two of them, he looked up at Lance, tears forming in his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Arthur looked at the car underside, situated four inches from his face, and tried not to imagine what would happen if he licked it. Nevertheless, the taste and texture crawled onto his tongue, into his head. He scraped his tongue with his teeth, as if he’d actually done it.

 

_You said I forgave you, and you were wrong. But you’ve said, over and over, that you were sorry. And now I think that’s wrong too._

 

He chuckled: the intrusive thoughts were getting so crowded up in his belfry, he’d need to institute some sort of number system like at the DMV. He kept working as Lewis’s voice echoed in his head, pretending he didn’t hear—like he’d pretended these past several days.

 

_And I wish I knew how to show you that you don’t have to be sorry, that you deserve better. But if you’ve done anything this past year to hurt me, to hurt anyone? Then I forgive you._

 

“Why,” Arthur mouthed, as his raised arm sagged from the car.

 

_Because… it hurts. You see your own hands, hurting the people you love…. I just want it to stop hurting._

 

That was the fun thing about replaying conversations in your head, over and over and over. You got to come up with the perfect comeback.

 

 _But you’re wrong,_  he thought, watching Lewis reunite with his family through the lens of a car-bottom.  _You don’t understand, because when your hands were gonna hurt them… you stopped it._

 

“Art?” said Lance’s voice from somewhere behind and above him.

 

He lifted up his metal arm and examined it, noticing the scratches and scuffs with disinterest.

 

“Earth to Art, you awake?”

 

He blinked and, for just the space of a moment—the moment his eyes were closed—it turned fleshy, and dark green.

 

“ _Dammit_ , Art, are you listening or not? This is important!”

 

Arthur jumped, or at least he jumped as much as a prone man could.  _He’s catching on._

 

It had been a few days since Arthur’s confessions about Lewis’s return, and Lance had looked increasingly troubled each day. Arthur could guess what was bothering him: Arthur himself. Goodness knew he’d been acting unfairly morose, and Lance would probably prefer having him around if he were more chipper.

 

“Come on, I know you can hear me.”

 

“Yeah, Lance?” he replied, injecting an emergency supply of energy into his voice. His eyes didn’t waver from the car-guts above him, or the metal hand in front of them.

 

Whose car  _was_  this, even? Somewhere in the last few days, he’d lost count. Did a robotic arm on an assembly line keep track of which car it was working on? His certainly hadn’t.

 

“Good, you can hear me. Well, I’ve got a job for you.”

 

“Really? Sure, let me—”

 

“But first, well, uh….” Arthur heard what sounded like Lance scratching his brow. “I’ve got a confession to make.”

 

“Oh? Neat!” He picked up a wrench and tried loosening a nut above him, hoping this sounded like an eager silence instead of a disinterested one. How did you make a silence sound different, anyway?

 

“Y'know,” Lance finally said, after maybe ten seconds, “this is usually the point where you say something like, 'Oh, Lance, you finally admit you’re secretly a wrestler’, or something.”

 

Arthur forced a laugh. “Yeah, eh. I just kinda felt the joke was getting old. Beating a dead horse, you know? Not very funny any—”

 

The creeper he was lying on got yanked out from beneath the car, and Arthur stared up at his uncle.

 

His uncle, dressed in shiny yellow spandex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tremendous thanks to Tumblr user hecallsmehischild, without whom this chapter would have taken even longer to publish!


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